


We Wear Plaid Now; Plaid is Cool

by noblydonedonnanoble



Series: Super Awesome Hipster AU [2]
Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffeeshop, Alternate Universe - Hipster, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:45:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 76,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/noblydonedonnanoble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catherine meets David in a thrift shop and it all goes from there; or,</p><p>A group of twenty-somethings wreaking havoc on the city of Chicago; or,</p><p>In which Catherine and Karen are sisters and the world seemingly revolves around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: David

                "Don't you just love walking into a thrift shop? They all just have such an… intoxicating aroma."

                The door to Finders Keepers slams shut, and Arthur and I glance at one another with raised eyebrows as Matt takes a number of steps ahead of us. It seems that he's already been drawn in by a rack of sweaters not far off.

                "Ah yes," I call after him. "I think it might be the smell of clothing that hasn't been washed in years."

                He looks back at the two of us and he scowls at me. "You're very funny, David. Really. I'm dying of laughter here, do you see?"

                Once his back is turned, I stick my tongue out at him. Arthur smacks my arm lightly. "You two need to learn how to play nicely," he whispers.

                "I play very nicely," I insist. As though to make my point, I follow Matt into the aisle of sweaters, and together the three of us peruse the selection. Personally, though, I've never been particularly enthused where sweaters are concerned. Matt and Arthur are gaga for them; I think that combined they must have more than this entire store. In fact, when they choose to defy all expectation and wear something else, I always find it necessary to point it out.

                For some reason, they always then find it necessary to express their aggravation forthwith.

                Regardless of their collection of previously accumulated sweaters, Arthur and Matt both browse through this rack at a snail's pace, evidently concerned that they might miss _the_ one (and let's ignore the fact that they've both got an armful as it is). And so eventually, I sigh dramatically and announce, "I'm going to look around the rest of the store. Come find me once you're done with your damn sweaters."

                "Have fun!" Matt calls after me. It seems that they both have chosen to disregard the rest of my remark.

                I stroll past aisles with only a glance until I reach it—an ocean of flannel. I smile at the sight of so much plaid, and eagerly get to work going through them all.

                Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of long, ginger hair. I turn to see a girl a few feet away from me, looking through the same rack. She seems completely oblivious to my presence. Frowning, I glance at the sign that hangs above us. It certainly _says_ "men's". With an air of nonchalance, I clear my throat. "Is it just me, or is one of us in the wrong row?"

                She jumps about a foot into the air and turns to stare at me, a deer in the headlights. "Oh, that would be me… It's just… I…" Something seems to click in her mind and she calms down slightly. "You aren't really bothered, are you?"

                I smile and shake my head. "Nope. I was just trying to make conversation with a fellow thrifter. Though if you don't mind my asking…"

                "What possessed me to stray into the men's section?" I nod. To myself, I am speculating over potential reasons. Perhaps she's shopping for a gift—for a brother? father? special someone? I hope not a special someone. Or perhaps… "Your clothes are just so much more comfortable."

                Somehow, not what I was expecting. "Well, yes, my clothes are more comfortable… That's why I choose to wear them."

                " _Men's_ clothes! We're talking in general about _men's_ clothes!"

                "Yes, yes, I know." I grin brashly, and she flushes. Whoever this woman is, she certainly seems rather easy to get wound up. I like it. Sticking out my right hand, I say, "I'm David."

                "Catherine." We shake hands, and she follows my lead as I return my attention to the shirts.

                "So, do you come here often?"

                I glance at this Catherine out of the corner of my eye and note her smirk when she says, "Yeah, sure; whenever I want to be overcome by the smell of clothing that hasn't been washed in years."

                "You're kidding."

                "Only partially."

                "No, no, I just mean…" I shake my head. "Never mind."

                Catherine smiles and looks down at the ground. She's blushing again. Seems like she does that a lot. "I heard you make that joke when you and your friends first came in. I thought it was funny."

                "Feel free to use it any time you like."

                After a brief silence, she adds, "I really do come here a lot, though. If you're interested."

                I glance over at her, but she's very intently flipping through the shirts and doesn't seem to be paying me much mind. Pulling a shirt off the rack—the color-combination hideous, it's not something I'd buy in a million years, but I feel the need to have something to fidget with—I examine the tag. Even if I had wanted it, it's too large. "I might be in possession of some amount of interest," I say carefully.

                Her smile is only getting bigger, until she looks at me and sees what I'm holding. She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Please tell me you're not thinking of buying that."

                It takes everything in me not to immediately fling it back onto the rack. "Oh, no, no… It's just… I thought it might suit my friend Arthur. I'm just going to go… show it to him. Don't… don't move."

                "I shan't!"

                I brave a glance back and she's watching me, that same smile still lighting up her face.

                Arthur and Matt are done looking at the sweaters, and have moved on to jeans. Arthur spots me first, and he, too, immediately expresses his skepticism in regards to the shirt. "That shirt is horrendous."

                Matt looks up as well, and announces, "Oh, I quite like it!"

                "Take it." I thrust it at him, and he snatches it away. "But that's not why I came over here."

                Noting the change in my voice, both of them inch closer to me, intrigued. "What happened?"

                "I just met a girl."

                "Oh God." Arthur rolls his eyes. "You've found your next petite blonde conquest."

                "Is she going to be like Sophia, or Georgia, running away after a few weeks once they realize how much of an asshole you are?"

                "Hey!"

                He pats me reassuringly on the arm. "You know I say that in the most loving way possible. And hey, Billie's still able to put up with you. Clearly you're not _all_ bad."

                "Well in any case, she's not my usual type."

                "Oh! Branching out to be an asshole to the entire feminine community. I certainly approve. Arthur, do you approve?"

                "Yes, very much so."

                "I'm pretty sure that you two are the assholes…" I grumble.

                "So what does she look like, then, if she's not your 'usual type'?"

                "Redhead and curvy. Cutest smile I've seen in my life. And she thinks I'm funny."

                "I'm glad someone does."

                I scowl at both of them. "What ever happened to 'playing nice'?"

                Arthur laughs. "C'mon David, that rule doesn't apply when a friend's smitten. I think that the rule then becomes, 'make the most obnoxious comment possible about the smitten friend'. Isn't that right, Matt?"

                "Yes, definitely sounds right to me."

                "Why do I surround myself by such pricks?"

                "Because you can't find anyone better."

                As I walk away, Arthur cautions me, "Don't fuck it up!" Normally, I would fire back a retort, but this time I ignore it, intent on returning to Catherine. Perhaps, I muse, I'll be able to acquire her number. And maybe see her again. And maybe—

                Maybe nothing, because she is not where I left her.

                I am immediately struck by a profound sense of panic, and sprint through the shop, looking to see if maybe she has gone to the front to purchase her selections. But she's not up with the cashier, either.

                So I ask him: "Did a redheaded girl come up here, by any chance?"

                And he nods. Says, "You just missed her. You might be able to catch her, if you hurry…"

                Yes, I intend to do just that. When I venture out onto the street, I can't see her in either direction. After a moment's deliberation, I figure that it's more likely she went in the direction of the El stop, so that's where I head too. I run the whole two blocks, peering into shop windows and down side streets to see if I can catch a glimpse of that ginger hair.

                Then I see her. Up on the platform. A hat now sits on her head, casting her face into half-shadow, but I know it's her. And it's her that boards a train headed into the loop, as I stand helplessly by at a red light.

                I return to the shop, dejected and, if I might be honest, a little embarrassed. Even though we exchanged only a few words, I feel like Catherine and I had gotten along, and it certainly seemed like she was interested in me, just as I was in her. But if that's the case, I can think of no reason why she might have just hauled off and left. Not unless she was running away. Did I really repel her so much that she felt inclined to escape as soon as I left her to her own devices?

                To say the least, that's rather discouraging.

                Upon my return, Matt promptly recognizes the change in my mood. "What happened, dude? Did she reject you?"

                "She didn't even bother to do that." I let out a sigh. "She left, even though I asked her to wait while I came to talk to you guys."

                "And she didn't give you her number?"

                I shake my head. "Nope. I don't even know a last name."

                "But you got her first name? That's something," Arthur assures me. "I mean, how many—" He looks at me expectantly.

                "Catherine."

                "How many ginger, curvy Catherines can there be in the city of Chicago and the surrounding area?"

                Matt and I raise our eyebrows at him.

                "What? I'm only trying to help."

                "It's really not working."

                Over the course of the next few weeks, I relive the flash of a moment that I had with Catherine. Nearly a month later, I have dropped it from conversation almost entirely, but I know that they know I'm still thinking of it. One day, as Arthur and I are on our way downtown, he catches me glancing hopefully at the door every time we hit a stop.

                "You know that the chances of running into her on the El are astronomical."

                Although there seems no point in trying to brush it off, I still make an effort. "I don't know what you're talking about."

                "How many times have I told you to just keep going back to Finders Keepers? You said she said she goes there often…"

                "Right, but when I asked, 'do you come here often,' it was making light of the common question at bars, and so maybe she was simply drawing out the joke—"

                "Or maybe she was telling you that she really does go there often and that maybe you'd run into each other again sometime if you actually bothered to _go_."

                We've bickered over this numerous times, and it feels silly to think that it's come up once again. "She's the one who bailed on me. If she wants to see me again, she should be seeking me out."

                "Ah, yes, based on the extensive amount of information that you gave her about yourself."

                "Well… How many tall, lanky, dashingly handsome Davids could there be in the greater Chicagoland area?"

                Arthur shakes his head. "It's really no funnier when you say these things than when I do."

                I shrug. "I can try."

                "Also you're really not 'dashingly handsome'."

                "On that matter we have a difference of opinions, but I'll let it go. What should I do about Catherine, Arthur?"

                He glares at me. "My answer hasn't changed yet; why would I humor you now?"

                "Maybe you'll get tired of being a broken record and tell me what I want to hear."

                "What is it that you want to hear?"

                "I can honestly say that I really don't know, and that regardless of what you tell me, I will not be pleased."

                Arthur slumps back in his seat and crosses his arms in frustration. "Why do I put up with you?"

                "Because you can't find anyone better. Also," I lower my voice so that no one around us can hear over the din of the subway. "Because you know by now that I get cranky when it's my time of the month."

                "God, fuck off." He shoves me, but I just steady myself, chuckling all the while.  "I don't know what to tell you, David. We live in a big city. If you're not proactive about it, chances are you'll never see her again."

                I grimace, because I know that he's right. Not that I'll say so, of course. But just as there's very little chance of me randomly running into this girl on the street, there's very little chance that I will encounter her even if I _am_ proactive. So if I try to find her, and if I am unsuccessful, I will be all the more disappointed later on. At least this way, I can chalk it up to the fates being against us. Even though I don't believe in such nonsense.

                Arthur gets off a few stops before I do, and so I bid him farewell. Almost as soon as he's gone, I get a text from Matt.

 

> You busy tonight?
> 
> No plans as of now, why?
> 
> Want to show you a great restaurant. Meet me at Daily Grind at 6, I'll be getting off then.

 

                Matt is always dragging me to "great restaurants". Sometimes they really are nice, and sometimes they're holes in the wall with incomprehensible names for their dishes. Since he's having me meet him at work, though, I find myself hopeful that perhaps this will be a "great restaurant" of the nice variety, if only because the surrounding neighborhood is trendy and consists of mostly mainstream eateries.

                Not that I necessarily support the patronage of mainstream eateries as a collective, but I prefer them to the aforementioned holes in the wall.

                So at about 10 to 6, I arrive at the Daily Grind, expecting to see Matt manning the register, as he often does. But he's not there.

                Catherine is.

                She seems equally stunned by the sight of me, so I know that, at least, this was not somehow her doing. As I shakily walk up to the register, I check to see if Matt is anywhere to be found. He is, on this particular evening, preparing the drinks, and when we make eye contact, he raises his eyebrows and grins at me. I shake my head almost imperceptibly; I am so _not_ amused.

                "Hello again," I say.

                "Hi."

                We both pause for a moment, and then promptly attempt to speak simultaneously.

                "Look, I'm really sorry—"

                "I've been looking—"

                We falter. She gestures to me to continue, but I do the same to her, and we both grin. She giggles uncomfortably. "Okay, I'll go then, I guess. I'm really sorry that I left. It's just that my sister texted me, and needed me to help her deal with some emergency. I promise I… I really didn't want to go. Um… yeah. What… what were you going to say?"

                Suddenly shy, I shrug, not wanting to say anything that sounds too forward. "Just that, y'know, I've been looking for you."

                She smiles. "I've been looking for you too."

                "Catherine! Take his order! You've got customers waiting," Matt calls from his station.

                I look behind me and see that there's one middle-aged woman standing behind me. Doesn't look much like the impatient type; in fact, she seems to be rather intrigued by the back-and-forth between me and Catherine. But I do give her my order with no more delays. When I pay, my hand brushes hers and we both pull away too fast, in that uncomfortable moment where we don't know what sort of reaction the other person is expecting. And we so both blush.

                "I'll, um, go over there now," I say, pointing toward Matt.

                "Okay."

                "Foot, meet mouth…" Matt mutters as soon as I reach him.

                "Don't give me that! You've got some explaining to do."

                He hands me my drink with what I tend to call his "dashing barista" smile—far more innocent than usual, with only the barest hint of irony. "All will be made clear. Once you go over and get that girl's number so that Arthur and I no longer have to listen to you bitch about how you lost the potential girl of your dreams."

                When I chance a glimpse at Catherine, I see that she's watching us curiously. With more confidence than I actually feel, I return to her and say, casually, "So, since we've so conveniently met again, would you like to give me your number?"

                "Yeah, I think I can do that." She pulls a pen out of her ponytail and scribbles the digits onto a discarded receipt. I take it from her and again, our hands brush. It's all I can do to keep myself from giggling.  

                Matt appears by her side, in the process of pulling his apron off. "Catherine, I'm gonna head out. Don't think Alex would mind if I leave a few minutes early, do you?"

                She's still looking at me as she says, "No, I suppose not."

                "Cool. C'mon David, let's get some dinner."

                "Do we have to leave right away?" I ask, even as he's walking around the counter to come meet me.

                "Yeah, I had to make a reservation and everything." He actually has the gall to grab at the collar of my shirt and pull me in the direction of the door.

                "Bye then!" Catherine calls after us.

                I wave with one hand, and use the other to grab ahold of Matt and pull around so that I'm facing the proper way.

                As soon as we're outside, I hit him. "What the fuck was that? Why didn't you tell me that you _knew_ her?"

                "Well I didn't _know_ if I knew her, did I? A curvy redhead named Catherine isn't exactly a lot to go on. But she started working here a few days after your little… experience. And I started to wonder. So when I found out she'd be working in the same timeslot as me, I dragged you out here. We're actually going to eat downtown."

                I stop in my tracks and stare at him. "I rode all the way out here and we're going all the way back?"

                He tugs me along once again, and points out his car, which I can see parked about half a block away. "Relax, we're driving. But honestly, you should work on your gratitude. I just reunited you with the girl of your dreams. Or so you say. There is one hiccup, information that I happen to be privy to because I've heard her and Freema gossiping these past few weeks."

                Oh God. She's married, isn't she? I didn't bother to check her ring finger. Or maybe she's got some deadly disease and only has a few months to live. Oh God oh God oh God. "What is it?"

                "She's in a relationship."

                "Fuck."

                "But she thinks it's bound to end soon."

                "Well that's good, isn't it?"

                "Mostly because she's almost certain that he's cheating on her."

                I groan. "You're kidding."

                Matt shakes his head. "Don't you recognize my serious face when you see it?"

                "Not really, no…"

                "Well this is it. But don't lose faith, my friend…" We reach his car, and with the utmost dramatics, he opens the passenger door for me. "If you ask me, you're definitely enough to make a girl question the most stable of relationships."

                I slide into the seat and sit back with a grunt. "Somehow, from you, I don't feel like that's a compliment."


	2. Chapter 2: Catherine

                When I get off from work, my first instinct is to call my sister and inform her that I am inviting myself over to her apartment. She grumbles about it, but by this point she knows that nothing will change my mind.

                She says as much when she opens the door. "Someday you're going to show up while I'm with a boy, and I feel like even that won't be enough to deter you."

                I smile and shake my head. "Nope. I'll sit down in between you and make polite conversation. 'So, how long have you known Karen? Oh, five minutes? That must be some sort of record, Karen, good on you.'"

                "Yes, the epitome of polite, you are."

                "I am, though! Just not to you."

                "Is that meant to make me feel special?"

                I roll my eyes and grab her arm, pulling her over to her couch. "Sit. I've got news."

                My change in tone is not lost on her, and she immediately does as I asked. "What's happened? I feel like you're going to tell me that your cat died or something."

                "What?" I stare at her, appalled. "Leo is fine, thank you very much. Though he still seems to be a bit angry about the road trip. Honestly, it's been two months, he should be over it by now…"

                "Cats never forget."

                "Well in any case, Leo is alive and well. That's not why I came all the way over here."

                "Then why _did_ you come, when I could have been doing more productive things with my Friday night?"

                Suddenly nervous, I look down at my hands and start wringing them. "Remember that guy I told you about?"

                Karen immediately perks up. "D'you mean thrift shop boy? Of course I remember thrift shop boy. I know you barely exchanged words but he certainly sounds better for you than this Twig character you left behind at home. I mean honestly, what kind of name—"

                "Yes Karen, I am well-aware of your opinion on my boyfriend. Can we drop it now, please? You haven't even let me get to my news."

                "Okay, okay, go on then!"

                "Today he came into the coffee shop where I work."

                She gasps. "No!"

                I nod. "Apparently he's good friends with my co-worker, Matt…"

                "What are the odds of that? The whole city, and his friend just so happens to work with you… C'mon Catherine, you can't deny that the fates seem to be smiling down on you right now. You can't ignore that."

                 Although I desperately want to contradict her, I know she's right—I can't ignore it, not completely. Because it's not every day that you encounter a stranger who makes as much of an impression on you as David did on me, and it's certainly not every day that you encounter that same person twice. "But I'm in a relationship."

                "You think he's cheating on you!"

                "I don't know that for sure! He says he's not, and so unless I get proof that he's lying…"

                Karen scowls. "I don't even know where to begin."

                "Begin by telling me how I can get to know David without letting him think that I'm single, but also without shutting the door to a relationship should I choose to pursue one in the probably far-off if at all future."

                "Please tell me you're joking."

                "I'm not joking."

                She sighs and jumps up, wandering into her kitchen. While in the other room, she shouts, "Just as long as the record shows that in my mind, Twig has now become a non-entity—"

                "The record shows it!" And doesn't much appreciate it, but I let her go on anyway.

                "—I think you should tell him that you're in a relationship. Get to know him. _When_ you break up—"

                "If we break up!"

                Karen returns to the living room bearing two boxes of Chinese take-out, and thrusts one at me. "Tofu, just for you. And whatever. If break-up, and if still interested, then have at it. If no break-up, be friends. You've had guy friends. You can do that."

                "But I've never had a guy friend…" How do I put it delicately?

                "Whom you've wanted to bang upon first contact?"

                I blush. "Yeah."

                "Yeah, that is, so often, what screws you over."

                "Literally…" I add, nudging her and grinning.

                She rolls her eyes. "Every time I think you can't possibly sink any lower."

                "Puns are, without a doubt, the finest form of humor to grace the world with their presence. The cornier, the better."

                "I half expect you to pull an ear of corn out of your pocket for effect."

                "Hmm…" I look up from my food and gaze thoughtfully into the distance. "That's really not a bad idea… I'll keep it in mind for the future."           

                "Are you sure that Mom and Dad didn't send you here in order to gradually drive me insane?"

                I give her a tentative smile, and when she returns it in full, I feel that I can get away with saying, "Relatively sure, yes. Oh, there's a pun in there somewhere, too, I just need to pry it out. Give me a moment."

                "You know that if I kicked you out right now, I would still be able to call up my friends and go out to a club. Would probably be a better use of my time than holing up in my apartment with my big sister."

                Before I can respond, I receive a text message. Since Karen is the only person who texts me on a day-to-day basis, I've got no idea who it might be.

 

> Hi, it's David. Matt told me to wait a day to talk to you, but I've waited a month already… Coffee tomorrow?

 

                Karen, who has a nasty habit of reading my texts over my shoulder, lets out a delighted gasp. "Catherine! Please tell me you'll say yes. Please. He sounds adorable. Ditch the dunce you left at home and give the one right here a chance."

                I stare at my phone, uncertain. "Stop saying that. If I end things with Twig, it will be because it's what's best for me. Not because you told me to, and not because another guy came into the picture."

                "But you know I always know what's best for you."

                "Shut up, I'm thinking."

                Fingers shaking, I type a reply in the affirmative.

                "Maybe upon further examination, I'll hate him," I say, dumbly.

                "Always possible." She won't stop smirking, and I have to turn away because I can feel my face heating up as I blush.

                Eventually, I tire of my darling sister's teasing, and so I excuse myself, swearing that it's all because of how long it will take to get home.

                "You're three stops away!" she protests.

                "I know." I nod seriously. "It's quite the commute, so I'd better get a move on."

                She rolls her eyes and bids me farewell, lamenting the fact that, had I left an hour earlier, she could have still gone out, but that now she's doomed to an evening in with her TiVo.

                The entire way home, I mull over her remarks about Twig. Regardless of her blatant dislike for him—which in and of itself, I can't fathom, as she's never actually met the man—I certainly have feelings for him. I might even love him. On that matter, I am uncertain, if only because when I left, we had not yet reached a point of saying such things out loud. But I think I'm in love with him. And when Karen and I return home for a visit over Thanksgiving, I have every intention of telling him so. And if I'm in love with him, I see no reason why I should break things off for someone I barely know.

                Even if that someone and I seem to have hit it off quite splendidly.

                So when I go to meet David the next day, I am determined to be forthright, explain that I've got a boyfriend, and so I hope my agreement to meet him for coffee was not misleading because I am interested in getting to know him better, but that I'm not available to pursue a relationship at this time.

                I spent an hour practicing the speech in front of the mirror.

                And then I walk into the shop, and my heart leaps directly into my throat at the sight of him. The past two times we met, he must have been dressed for work, because his wardrobe is entirely altered; rather than the generic dress shirt and khakis, he's wearing plaid—this does not surprise me, thought thankfully it's not the horrendous shirt he pulled off the rack when we met—a leather jacket, and a pair of dark skinny jeans. Based on our previous encounters, I never would have guessed that he might have been able to pull the jeans off, and so I am overwhelmed by how good he looks.

                But somehow, that is not the worst part.

                No. It appears that the past two times we met, he was wearing contacts, because now he's wearing glasses.

                He looks really good with glasses.

                I hate myself.

                "Hey." I make my presence known before I've actually reached his table, and his attention is focused entirely on a book—did he think that I'd be so boring that he felt inclined to bring a book along to entertain himself?—so my voice nearly startles him out of his seat. I giggle in spite of myself. God, if I want to become friends with this guy, I need to learn to control myself properly.

                "Catherine! Hi." Immediately, David slams the book shut and slides it away. Well, at least that suggests it was not in preparation for boring conversation. "I'm sorry, bus was running in my favor today, so I got here early and didn't want to just stand around… So I…" He gestures toward his coffee apologetically. "Kind of just got in line. But um…"

                "Oh! No, don't… don't worry about it. I'll just run over and get something really quick, and I'll be back." It will be so much easier to keep this a non-date if I don't have to coerce him into letting me buy my own drink.

                When I have returned, I sit down across from him and settle back into my seat. For a few moments, the two of us just stare at each other, taking it all in. David is the one that dares to speak first. "I'm sorry, I feel so awkward. I just… It's weird that after a month of wondering whether I would ever see you again, would ever get the chance to talk to you, I… do."

                "I know the feeling," I mumble. And I do. "But I do think I should tell you something, here and now, before we go any further."

                "You're in a relationship."

                Slightly taken aback, I frown and say, "Actually, yes. How in the world did you know that?"

                He blushes slightly, and the fact that I'm making him blush in turn makes me blush. "My friend Matt, he's heard you gossiping with your co-worker. Kind of held on to the information for me. I didn't ask him to, obviously. I didn't even know you worked with him until yesterday, since he didn't know for sure whether you were the same girl. But yeah, he told me."

                "And that doesn't bother you, that I'm with someone?"

                "To be honest, I was a bit surprised that you waited this long to tell me. But… I'd like to be friends with you. I'm not going to change my mind about that just because sex is out of the question." He pauses, then lowers his voice to add, "Is sex out of the question?" I raise my eyebrows, and I can't even tell him off before he's cringing and holding his hands up to mock shield himself. "Kidding, kidding! Friends, I'm serious. Friends would be good."

                I can't help but smile. "Yeah, friends would be good."

                "I've never really had many friends that are girls…"

                Somehow, looking at him, that doesn't surprise me. "Well, there's a first for everything."

                This being decided on, I can relax somewhat. For the next hour and a half, we exchange abridged versions of our lives up to this point—I learn that David is from a small town in Indiana, that he came to Chicago when he went to Northwestern for theater. He transferred into the business school after only a year. Since graduation, he hasn't returned to his home town even once.

                When I inform him that I hail from Boston, he is stunned.

                "But you don't even have the accent!" he complains. "What's the point of coming from Boston if you don't have the accent?"

                "According to Matt, it comes out sometimes during rushes. I get stressed—"

                "—and you just start shouting in Boston speak."

                We both grin, and I nod. "Yeah, sure. Boston speak. That's a way of putting it, I suppose. Not my first instinct, but…"

                "Just keep going, I shouldn't have interrupted."

                Such a statement astonishes me, but I smile at him gratefully and continue, describing to him my life growing up with my sister. How she made a life for herself here, and how a few months ago, I made up my mind to try my luck in the Windy City as well.

                We do not discuss relationships. That seems to be an agreement that we need not even bother to make aloud. There are a couple of moments when I almost make mention of Twig, but when that happens, I quickly change the subject. I can't tell if David notices or not. Even if he doesn't, I figure he'll catch on soon enough and be more appreciative than anything else.

                "Y'know, there's one thing that you still haven't told me about, and that's only making me more and more curious," he says after a while.

                "Hmm?"

                "What is it that you want to _do_? I doubt you intend to spend your whole life slaving away in a coffee shop. I mean, I know the Daily Grind is great. And Alex loves it like it's her own child. But even she's got a photography business on the side. Matt's a writer. So what is it for you?"

                "Oh." I realize that I had somehow unintentionally glazed over that aspect of my life, and immediately worry that he thinks I am somehow ashamed or that I'm trying to remain secretive. "I'm an actress. Or I'm trying to be. And Chicago's got a good theater scene, so…"

                David smiles. "You're braver than I. In the best of all possible worlds, that's still what I'd rather be doing."

                "So why aren't you?"

                He shrugs and takes a sip of coffee; I can spot someone buying time, and that's what he's doing. "Maybe when enough people told me that it's a rough business, that I had no chance… it got to me. Nagged at me until I decided it wasn't worth it."

                "Do you regret that?"

                Again, more buying time as he takes another drink. "More than anything. But let's not discuss my poor choices. Have you gotten any jobs?"

                "I've done some stand-up gigs."

                "No way! That's fantastic. It's hard to be a woman in stand-up."

                "Yes, I'm sure you know so much about that."

                He laughs. "Alright, fair enough. But you should let me know next time you're performing somewhere. I'd love to come see you."

                "Oh, God no! I'd be so nervous that I'd fuck up and never work another day in my life."

                "Unless you create your own coffee shop to care for as though it's your own child."

                "Yes, as far as back-up plans, I've always got that."

                We finally part when he announces that he has plans to meet someone for dinner, so he should probably get going.

                "Feel free to text me any time," I tell him. "I'm always up for a conversation."

                "Right back at you."

                It seems that neither of us knows how to bid the other farewell, and finally I just find myself waving awkwardly. He follows my lead.

                David lingers at the bus stop as I continue on to the El. As I'm waiting at a red light, I chance a glance back and see that he's still watching me. We both smile, both wave again.

                The rest of the day, I can't stop grinning. It doesn't matter what Karen thinks—I think it will be nice, being just friends with David. And maybe that's the way it's supposed to be. 


	3. Chapter 3: David

                We begin to correspond on a regular basis. I suppose I'm the one that sets the tone of our day-to-day interactions, because the first time I text her, it is with a picture of a man dressed up as a tree that I see on the El the next evening.

 

> Venture onto the Red line after 8pm and you encounter things like this.

 

                I don't know what I expect in response—honestly, I don't think I expect anything—but she surprises me.

 

> Wrong. Venture onto the Red line at any time of day and you encounter things like that.

 

                And so that is what we do. When I make an observation about the absurdity of the world around us, Catherine is the one I tell. She tells me about something stupid that her pet cat did the other day. There is little expectation for substance. There is an acknowledgment that it could take ten seconds or ten hours to get back to each other, and somehow that's okay.

                "I've never been so happy to be _just friends_ with a girl," I tell Arthur a few weeks later.

                "I must say I never expected to hear those words come out of your mouth, at least not in regards to her. And I'm not sure I believe it, but if you do, then more power to you."

                "What on earth do you mean?"

                He raises his eyebrows at me. "Let's say you're at home one night, and she just randomly knocks on your door. You open it up, and before you can say a word, she is kissing you, and instructing you to ravish her. She declares that while she's still with that boyfriend of hers, she feels a pull to you that she can no longer resist, has a thirst that must be satisfied. Would you do it? Would you satisfy that thirst?"

                I'm made more than a little uncomfortable by the way he's dramatically batting his eyelashes at me. And by the accuracy in his description of a scene that I had been envisioning just a few hours ago. "I… no." Yes. I did. Theoretically so, but still.

                "Of course." Arthur snorts with laughter, and a few people around us turn to stare. "I don't care how much you're enjoying _getting to know_ Catherine without all the pressure of being a boyfriend. I get that. But I know you, and I know that if you're into her—which you are—you're not happy about it. Best case scenario, you're neutral on the matter. You can lie to yourself, but I'm not falling for it."

                As though she knows we're discussing her, my phone buzzes. I immediately pull it out to check the message. "You're such a teenage boy," Arthur mutters.

 

> Just heard about Red line derailment that happened this morning. You okay?

 

                I can't help but grin, and I show the text to Arthur. "Look at that, she's all concerned about my well-being."

                "Yes, it's so sweet. If only you could just sleep with her like we all know you want to. Even _she_ knows it. Doesn't that bother you in the slightest?"

                "No, it doesn't. What _does_ bother me is that you and Matt are perpetually on my back about this, trying to ruin something that's going well, just because it fucks with your perception of what kind of person I am."

                He is so taken aback that he drops the subject, and the following silence allows me enough time to respond to Catherine.

 

> Perfectly fine. I was already downtown. Only inconvenience is the three-bus commute through which I am currently suffering.

 

                As an afterthought, I snap a picture of myself pouting, and send that as well.

                It seems like Arthur would like to comment, but now he opts to keep it to himself. Instead, he asks, "Do you think I should tell Matt and Billie that we'll be a little late? If we want to stop off at home before heading out…"

                I shake my head. "No, I think we should just go straight to the restaurant. Otherwise we have to go twenty minutes in the wrong direction. And I'd just feel bad, making them wait."

                He shrugs. "Suit yourself."

                Only a few minutes later, I receive another text from Catherine. It is a photo of her, also pouting, and with a large number of people in the background.

 

> Funny, I'm currently suffering through a surprise birthday party my sister threw for me. SOS.
> 
> It's your birthday? Why didn't you tell me? I'd have bought you a cake. And unfortunately, can't save ship. Going out to dinner with people.
> 
> Bring them. I'm dying.

 

                "Hey Arthur," I say slowly. "Do you think Matt and Billie would be up to going to a party instead?"

                "Um, maybe. Why?"

                I gesture to my phone. "Catherine's stuck at a party and she wants some company."

                "And she told you to bring us along? Seriously?" Since he seems so disbelieving, I show him the text. And he shrugs. "Alright. Let's call them."

                "Hey Matt. Any chance you and Billie are interested in going to a party?—Oh, well, David was texting Catherine and she told him—yes, I know, he totally is, but we love him anyway.—That's a yes? Okay, cool, he'll text you the address and we'll meet you there."

                As soon as Arthur hangs up, I say, "I'm totally what?"

                "What?"

                "Matt said something, and you said, 'yes, I know, he totally is, but we love him anyway.' I'm totally what?"

                "Oh." He grins. "Whipped."

                I frown and cross my arms petulantly. "You guys are such pricks. Just because I'm helping out a friend in need…"

                Arthur scoffs, but again, keeps his thoughts to himself, and Catherine does not come up again, despite the fact that we're on our way to her surprise party.

                When we reach the address—which turns out to be only a few blocks away from my and Arthur's apartment, but also turns out to be a legitimate house, and a fairly impressive one at that—Matt and Billie are already there, waiting for us.

                "Took you two long enough," Matt says.

                "You could've just gone in," I exclaim. "You and Catherine know each other."

                He shook his head. "Nah man, it would've felt weird. Also, I didn’t want any beautiful, single ladies in there thinking that Billie was my date."

                "I'll tell myself that it's because they'd be too threatened by me to make a move," Billie says cheerfully.

                Matt grins and pulls her into a one-armed side hug, kissing her on the crown of the head. "C'mon, you know I love you, Bills. I just know that your standards are too high to ever give me a chance."

                "Well since we're now all here, shall we?"

                The door to the house is flung wide open to any and all who might feel inclined to enter. It becomes apparent as soon as we have crossed the threshold that the house is, in fact, a two-flat, and we proceed upstairs, in the direction from which loud music and raucous shouts are emanating.

                Again, the door is wide open, and I see right away why—there's such a commotion that no one would want to be the one to man the entrance. Almost everyone is holding a bottle of beer; the few people who are holding cans of pop still also look tipsy.

                "I thought you said Catherine doesn't drink," Matt says slowly.

                "She doesn't. This is her sister's idea of a party, not hers."

                He nods thoughtfully. "I see. Well, I can dig it. Maybe I should go introduce myself to this sister of hers…" Without further ado, he's weaving his way through the crowd.

                "David!" I look around, and finally see Catherine about halfway across the room, waving me over.

                I push between a few people and reach her in a matter of seconds. "Hey."

                She smiles. "Hey. I'm gonna be honest, I half-expected you to not show up."

                "What? Don't be silly. I hope you know you should always be able to call on me."

                A hand reaches across my back and claps me on the shoulder, making me jump about a foot into the air. "David! Aren't you going to officially introduce us?"

                I blush and look back at Arthur, glaring at him slightly. "Of course, where are my manners? Catherine, these are my friends, Arthur and Billie. Matt also tagged along but he's already working the room…"

                "That doesn't surprise me in the least," she says with a laugh. "It's nice to meet you both. Feel free to make yourselves at home… Everyone else did."

                "Well, I wouldn't mind helping myself to a beer… Billie?" Arthur gives her a loaded look, and she quickly takes his lead and nods enthusiastically. Before we can blink, they're gone.

                Catherine and I stare at the spot where they had been standing, both slightly bewildered. "They seem… nice," she says at last.

                "They are. I dunno why they're being that way."

                "Y'know, I've heard countless stories about the messes that you, Arthur and Matt get into, but I don't think you've mentioned Billie before. How do you know her?"

                " Billie?" I rub the back of my neck uncomfortably. "We, er, dated, for a little under two months. Back in college. Ancient history now."

                "Ah." She nods. "Cool, cool."

                For a moment, I question my choice to come. I question bringing Billie here because at the mention of another relationship, Catherine immediately clams up.

                But I remind myself that while I might be friends with an ex, she is still _with_ her boyfriend, and so she's really not the one who should be complaining. Besides which, Catherine and I are friends. And only friends. Whatever Arthur and Matt might say to the contrary. However much they might think I want to be more.

                I push the discomfort of relationship talk aside—as we always do—and raise the question that I ask about twice a week. "So, when are you going to tell me about a gig that you're doing so that I can come see you?"

                She shies away from the question, discomforted by the concept of being so scrutinized, but now at least she is no longer discomforted by my previous relationship. "David, c'mon, I've told you how antsy it would make me if you came to see me."

                The thought of her up in front of a crowd, owning the stage, makes me antsy for a completely different reason, but I do not say so. "You could always give me a list of venues and then I'll show up some random night so that you don't know when to expect me."

                "No! Then I'll just be nervous every night—"

                "And you'll fuck up and never work again. That's right, I'd forgotten." We share a laugh, and once we have calmed down, I ask, "So, who exactly is hosting this shindig? I'd assume it to be your humble abode, except you said—"

                "I live in Ravenswood, yeah. No, this is my sister's place. She lives up here, and the landlord lives downstairs, but is conveniently out of town."

                "Which means no noise regulation."

                Catherine nods and rolls her eyes. As if to illustrate this point, someone turns the sound system up even more, which prompts some people present to hoot and holler. "Speaking of noise, do you want to move into a different room?"

                "Sounds like a plan!"

                I follow her through the living room and down a currently quite congested hallway, past two bedrooms and into the kitchen. While people are coming and going with some frequency, the kitchen is clearly little more than a pit stop, during which the party goers retrieve more alcohol before returning into the fray. The only other people who seem to be lingering are—

                "Look David, Matt's chatting up my sister."

                "Doesn't surprise me. He's always had a thing for gingers."

                "Really?" She glances over at them. "Why didn't he bother to come on to me, then? Not that I would have gone for it, of course; just look at that chin."

                The answer to that is, of course, that in his mind, I already had dibs. But I don't say that. Instead, I just shrug. "I dunno. Maybe he just doesn't think it's a good idea to date coworkers."

                We stand in silence for a while, just watching the two of them. They are perched together atop the kitchen counter, knocking back beers and laughing together like they've known one another for ages.

                "Once or twice, I almost tricked Karen into coming into the Daily Grind just so that she could 'accidentally' meet Matt," Catherine informs me. "I thought they might hit it off."

                "That's what he did with me, so it would serve him right."

                "But we'd already met."

                As I lean down to pull a Coke from the cooler, I point out, "I wouldn't consider it a meeting if I didn't learn anything about you except your name. Oh, and, of course, that you've got a _flawless_ sense of humor, if you have the sense to recite my own jokes back at me."

                "Need you learn anything else to know that I am, in fact, the embodiment of perfection?"

                I'm at a loss for words, because if I'm playing at being just friends, there's nothing I can say to that. And when I risk a jaunt down the teasing, flirtatious road, I can never tell how she might react.

                Thankfully, I am saved from having to respond because at that moment, Matt calls over to us. "Catherine! I am appalled that you didn't endeavor to introduce me to your sister sooner."

                "Now you've done it," she whispers. "They like each other."

                "You're the one who asked me to bring my friends to the party!"

                "But you're the one who brought him!"

                "Which doesn't matter since you were thinking of introducing them anyway." Taking pride in such a well-reasoned argument, I pop the can of Coke open right in her face.

                Unfortunately, I had not accounted for the fact that these beverages might have been slightly disrupted during their travel time from the store to the apartment, and as soon as it's open, it sprays fizz all over both of us—our hair, our shirts, even dripping down our pants and onto the floor.

                Immediately, Matt, Karen and I are laughing. Catherine is certainly nowhere near as amused and she grimaces at us all until, still chuckling, Karen hops off the counter and says, "C'mon you two, let me get you some dry clothes."

                We follow her back into the hallway, and into one of the bedrooms, where she burrows through a dresser. "Lucky for you, Catherine, I think I still have some of the clothes that I stole from you a while back… And David…" She looks me up and down, scrutinizing me, and says, "Yes, I think I should have something that'll fit you."

                "Why has your sister got men's clothing if she's not in a relationship with a man?" I whisper.

                It is Karen, not Catherine, who responds, in an obnoxious stage whisper. "Because you wouldn't believe the things a man forgets when he's running away after a shameful one-night stand." She tosses me a ratty tee-shirt and an old, torn pair of jeans. "Best you're gonna get, sorry, thrift shop boy. You can go change in the other bedroom; if there's anyone in there, feel free to kick them out."

                Although slightly puzzled by her use of the moniker "thrift shop boy"—not because I cannot determine its origin, but because it makes me wonder whether she has much reason to refer to me in conversation with Catherine, and isn't that quite the delightful thought—I follow her instruction without question.

                Once I am in dry clothes, I go in search of Catherine or Karen, for a recommendation on where to put my own belongings until I have to leave. Instead I nearly crash into Billie out in the hallway.

                "Wow, you almost look like a frat boy again," she says with a smirk.

                "I should hope the asshole vibe isn't as prominent now as it was then."

                Billie laughs. "Maybe not, but now you've got 'pretentious overachiever' going for you instead, and some would say that's not much better." She looks around quickly and lowers her voice. "Look, I think I'm going to head out."

                "Already? We only just got here."

                "Yeah, I know, but…" She shrugs. "I'm leaving for San Francisco early tomorrow for this conference…"

                I gape at her. "A conference? What? Why didn't you tell me? That's so exciting! I wouldn't have suggested this if I'd known…"

                "Don't be silly, David. I agreed to come. It was quite… informative. But I really should go home, because I haven't even bothered to pack yet."

                "Okay, if you insist. But call me when you get home, alright? I want to hear all about the fun things you did."

                "At a journalism conference?" She snorts. "Yeah, right. But I will call you, and the four of us can set up another dinner date. Maybe you can even bring Catherine this time…" She waggles her eyebrows.

                I sigh. "We'll see. C'mon, give us a hug." I pull her in close for a brief, though tight, embrace, and when I release her I add, "But probably not. I think she's jealous of you."

                "Moi? What, for getting a chance to tap that? I could get her over that soon enough; the stories I could tell her…"

                "Okay _definitely_ not."

                "See you, David!" she says with a cheerful giggle. I watch her like a hawk until she has safely left the party.

                It doesn't take me long to find Catherine after that—she has, once again, retreated to the kitchen, although I notice that Matt and Karen are no longer there. At the sight of me, she smiles. "You look adorable. Ridiculous, but adorable."

                "I used to dress like this on a daily basis," I inform her.

                "And then someone literally knocked the sense into you and helped you realize that you were dressing like a hobo?"

                "Something like that, yeah." I find that I can't stop grinning, because the longer Catherine looks at me, the pinker her cheeks are getting. She clearly knows it, too, because she turns away and goes to retrieve her own can of Coke.

                "You know what bothers me most about this?"

                Because I am uncertain whether or not she's asking a rhetorical question, I go for the safest response manageable: "What?"

                "I would have loved to just go out for a nice dinner with Karen to celebrate my birthday. To me, that sounds perfect. But instead, she had to throw an enormous party. She knows that I hate parties. Being surrounded by a lot of drunk people isn't my idea of fun. Besides which, I haven't exactly made many friends yet since I moved, which means that she just invited a ton of her friends, none of whom I like. I couldn't leave because it would offend her, so I have to stick around and watch while this mob gets uncontrollably wasted, supposedly in honor of my birthday. Like… please tell me that I'm not alone in thinking that's a lousy way to spend your birthday."

                "No, you're not alone. That's a horrendous way to spend your birthday."

                Catherine smiles and leans into me, wrapping her arms around me sideways. "Thank you for coming, David. Also for being basically my only friend. Here, I mean. Obviously I've got other friends. They're just not here. So yeah, thank you."

                I smile too, although I know she can't see me, and I return the hug heartily. "You're very welcome. But honestly, how could I say no to that face?"  

                She doesn't respond, and for that I am grateful, because I don't know if I'd be able to handle whatever she might choose to say. Not if we're standing here, not if I'm holding her in my arms and not if, for at least a few seconds, I can pretend that she's really mine.


	4. Chapter 4: Catherine

                The party lasts into the wee hours of the morning. Around midnight, Matt and Arthur come into the kitchen in search of David. "We're heading out," Matt announces. "You coming?"

                "Um…" He glances at me, then shakes his head. "Nah, you guys go ahead; I'll stay here for a little while longer."

                Arthur shrugs. "Suit yourself. Don't expect me to leave the lights on for you."

                "Hey, last time you didn't, I tripped over the dog and almost fell face-first into the television!"

                Matt and Arthur laugh and part with no more than a wave, and still no promises in regards to the lights.

                "You really don't have to stick around, you know. Like I said before, I was surprised you came at all."

                He waves this off. "Don't be silly! I only live a few blocks away, so it'd practically be a crime for me to leave now."

                I don't bother to tell him, yet again, how appreciative I am.

                As some of the guests begin to filter out, we are able to migrate back into the living room. While the couch is occupied nearly to the breaking point, a sizable chair is available, so the two of us squeeze on to it and sit together, watching the mayhem as it unfolds.

                "You should tell her."

                This declaration comes after a rather lengthy bout of silence, and while I myself have experienced similar moments of suddenly turning an internal struggle outward, it certainly seems like a bizarre phrase to suddenly blurt out. "Tell who, what?"

                "Tell your sister that you're pissed about the party. You said that she does this sort of thing a lot. So if you don't tell her, you'll just keep getting increasingly pissed off. Siblings bicker, but they shouldn't have long-standing resentments. Don't let it fester. Just tell her."

                I gape at him. Sometimes conversations with David practically give me whiplash, because of how quickly he switches gears. Once I've had a moment to process his recommendation, I stammer out, "It's not like it'll make any difference."

                "And you know that because…?"

                "Because she's my sister and I know how she reacts to things."

                "So you've never said anything about it before. The stuff that bothers you."

                It's disconcerting to be sitting so close to someone when I suddenly want nothing more than to pull as far away as possible. But I have nowhere to retreat. Instead, I can only lean as far back into my own portion of the chair as possible. I hit his arm, which at some point must have wrapped around me. His fingers are playing with strands of my hair. How did that happen? Why didn't I stop it? The observation leaves me even more flustered. "Of… of course I have. But she hasn't changed. So would you… would you please let it go?"

                "Yeah, alright," he murmurs. I do my best to ignore his grimace, but the image lingers on my mind long after we've moved on to lighter subject matters.

                At some point, I nod off. I do not recall becoming sleepy, and do not recall losing consciousness, but I know that I must have because I am shaken awake at almost three thirty in the morning.

                "Oi! Catherine, everyone's gone home. Are you going home, or do you wanna just crash in the other bedroom?"

                Karen stands over me, looking vaguely concerned, although I cannot fathom why in my current state, clouded as my thoughts are.

                "Um, bedroom, I think," I mumble. "Bedroom would be good."

                "Mkay, up you get, then." She offers me a hand, and I take it, allowing her to pull me out of the chair.

                "How long was I asleep?"

                "David left maybe twenty minutes ago, and he said it had been about an hour or so then." I wonder, vaguely, why he didn't wake me. And why he stayed once he made the choice to leave me be. As though she can hear my thoughts—perhaps I'm pondering aloud, I couldn't say for sure—Karen says, "He said he didn't want to disturb you because you looked 'adorable'. Direct quote there. Which is also adorable. Also, you two just looked adorable. You were practically on top of him, just so you know. Don't think he minded much."

                "Hmm… Me neither. He's cozy."

                She smirks and watches from the doorway as I settle into bed. "G'night sis. Oh! This rang about half an hour ago, but again, David didn't want to disturb you." She tosses me my phone, and with that, I am left alone.

                There is an unopened voicemail, and as soon as I see who left it, I smile and curl up, holding the phone to my ear.

                _"Hey Babe. I meant to call you earlier, but I was completely swamped. I'm so sorry. So yeah, happy birthday. I hope that you had lots of fun, and I'll talk to you soon so you can tell me all about it. Love you."_

                Love me? Twig said that he loves me.

                I drift off to sleep, feeling positively giddy.

                When I wake up, Karen is sitting beside me, halfway through putting a fresh coat of polish on her fingernails. I look at her suspiciously. "What time is it?"

                "About 10:30."

                "I think you're the only person I know who can sleep off alcohol in such a short span of time."

                She laughs. "Just because I drink smart. Never underestimate the power of water between beers."

                With a grunt, I haul myself up so that I am sitting on her level. "Yes, I will keep that in mind the next time I feel inclined to go on a partying stint."

                "Good. Please do. Here, I made you breakfast."

                "Bed _and_ breakfast!" I exclaim with delight as she hands me a plate of French toast. "Remind me again why I got my own place instead of just moving in with you?"

                Of course we both know that when living in the same house, we came close to killing one another on a regular basis. But she doesn't address this. Instead, she asks, "Did you enjoy the party?"

                My first instinct is to smile, and nod, and tell her that it was lovely. That is, after all, what I've always done. I can't, though, because David's disappointed face comes to mind before I can get a word out. And so, somehow, I find myself saying, "Actually, I'd really like to talk to you about that…"

                "You hated it, didn't you?"

                "What? Wh-why would you say that?"

                "I mean, David told me that you texted him and asked him to come, and that his friends bailed on dinner to come here. For which, just to clarify, I am eternally grateful because now I've got a date with Matt for next weekend and that should be great. But like… I can't imagine why you'd do that unless you were miserable."

                Rather than responding, I pick at my French toast uncomfortably.

                Karen takes this as a sign of its own, and exclaims, "Why didn't you just tell me? I can tell that you're not settling in here quite as well as you might have liked—no, don't try to say otherwise, we've been on this earth together for twenty-five years so I'd say by now I can notice that sort of thing. But I thought a party might be a nice distraction. You should have told me if it wasn't what you wanted."

                I giggle in spite of myself, and grab around for my phone so that I can text David and inform him that maybe he was right after all. I find it buried within the blankets. As soon as I have it in my hands, however, I am reminded of exactly why I fell asleep with it in the first place, and I suddenly feel immensely conflicted.

                "Twig said he loves me," I say slowly. Testing the words, because I still can hardly believe it. Perhaps I imagined the message. Or at least those words.

                "He what?"

                I flinch and promptly wonder whether I should have said anything. But there's no turning back now. "Last night, when he called. He left a message on his phone, and ended it with, 'love you.'"

                "And now suddenly you're like putty in his hands. Even though you think he's cheating on you."

                "I was very emotional when I said that! We hadn't talked for almost a week, I was upset, I was PMSing…"

                "You told everybody. Over the course of the next two weeks. No one is PMSing for two weeks."

                I shrug and return my focus to the French toast. "Maybe I was overreacting, then, y'know? Like, since then, he hasn't done anything particularly suspicious."

                "Can I hear the message?"

                "No one's stopping you…" I try to act as indifferent as possible as she takes the phone from me. I am completely and totally absorbed in my French toast. Which is, just to clarify, quite taste-worthy French toast. If there's one thing I can say about Karen, it's that she cooks fantastic breakfast food.

                But I also examine her expression very carefully as she listens to Twig's voicemail.

                "He was 'completely swamped'? Completely swamped with _what_? He called you at 4am! What would he be swamped with until 4am on your birthday? Well, by the time he called it wasn't even your birthday anymore. Can we talk about that, too? What if he threw in that rushed 'love you' because he felt guilty about not calling you sooner?"

                She seems to realize even before she's finished the sentence that this is not something I really need—or want—to hear, and immediately begins stammering for an explanation, for a way to make the remark less biting. It doesn't really work. I put my half-eaten French toast down on the bedside table, suddenly having lost my appetite.

                "Oh, look at the time. I should probably be off…"

                "Are you seriously pulling that?"

                I snatch my phone away from her and hop out of bed, grabbing last night's clothes on my way to the door—the ones that were drenched with soda because of David. I immediately begin to feel conflicted once again at the thought of him.

                Karen scurries after me. "Catherine, I didn't mean it like that."

                "Really?" I spin around to face her. "You delight in making fun of my boyfriend at every turn. You tell me regularly that I should break up with him. But even if you don't approve, the least you could do is put on a happy face and pretend to be excited because Twig means so, _so_ much to me, and I am not going to end things with him just because you think that someone exists with whom I am more compatible."

                "That's not… that's not even where I was going with this. You're putting words into my mouth now. Although if you're fielding remarks on that matter…"

                I yank the door open, but instead of leaving, I pause and glare at her. "I'm not. Fielding remarks, I mean. Although I'm also not putting words into your mouth. But seriously, you've made your opinion quite clear. I'm tired of hearing about it. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go before you come up with another clever idea to make me feel like shit."

                She calls after me again as I dart down the stairs, but I ignore this last attempt, and before I am outside, I hear her huff out an exasperated sigh and slam the door shut.

                As I walk to the bus stop, I call Twig, but he doesn't pick up. It occurs to me that he never wakes up before noon on weekends, so talking to him won't be an option for a few hours yet. So I call the only other person I can.

                "Good morning, sleepyhead. To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected correspondence?"

                "Do you always have to talk like that? Is it too hard to talk like a normal person sometimes?"

                David is taken back, and understandably so, given that I normally attempt to out-do him. "What happened?"

                I heave a dramatic sigh. Although calling him felt like the only proper course of action, I've got no idea how to describe my problem without veering into what is, for us, purposefully undisclosed territory. "I did what you suggested, and told Karen that I didn't like her throwing me a party. She took it really well."

                Hesitantly, he asks, "But isn't that a good thing?"

                "Yes, but then she ruined it by saying something absolutely horrible."

                "Would you mind my asking…"

                If I weren't so upset, I might laugh; I'd gladly tell him, but I'm sure he wouldn't want to know. "I don't think you want to hear about the specifics. Just an on-going argument between us that she brought up at exactly the wrong time."

                "Oh. Okay. I'm… um, I'm really sorry to hear that, Catherine. Are you still in the neighborhood? You could come over here if you'd like, to get your mind off of it."

                Somehow, I am surprised to find myself considering the offer. I contemplate the alternative—going home and sulking around my apartment, very possibly not going out until Tuesday, which is my next day of work. Not much prospective fun there. "Y'know, I think I'd actually like to take you up on that."

                Vague noises come through the phone, accompanied by some furious whispering on David's part, until at last he says, "Great, I'll send you the address and expect you in a few."

                Perhaps it would be worth confessing that, on more than one occasion, I have wondered about the general state of David's apartment. I know that he and Arthur are roommates, but I can't imagine what impact that might have on their décor. I wonder if they're the type to keep almost nothing in their fridge. I wonder whether their furniture is simply functional, or whether they actually bothered to go for things that looked decent, too. I wonder if there are photos or pieces of art on the walls. I wonder which one of them has claim on the larger bedroom.

                Not that I ponder over this all that often, mind you. Only when I've got nothing better to do.

                Their building seems to be one of the oldest ones on the block, a sturdy brick monstrosity that doesn't mesh properly with the trendy, new-age structures surrounding it. Seems like just the kind of place David would love. I walk through the courtyard and reach the door.

                It is only when I examine the list on the buzzer that it occurs to me that David has never told me his last name. I quickly phone him up again. Before he can even get a word in, I declare, "You've never told me your last name. It's hard to buzz and announce my arrival if I don't know which button to press."

                Rather than responding, he laughs. A few seconds later, he buzzes me up.

                "All the way up!" he calls from the landing. Of course they live on the top floor of an old building without an elevator.

                When I finally reach him, he is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and a sizable grin on his face. "Welcome to my humble abode. Well, relatively humble. As Matt points out on a regular basis, the fact that we live here does, in and of itself, eliminate some of the humbleness. Would you like the grand tour?"

                "Need you even ask?"

                In the entranceway, he directs my attention to a door. "That right there is the closet. Feel free to hang your coat up in there."

                I do so, after which point he places a hand on my back to guide me through the rest of the apartment. Perhaps I should object, but I don't.

                "To our left is the dining room—we never eat in there but we like to pretend that we're civilized sometimes so we've got it all furnished just in case. And then the kitchen's connected to it, as you'll see… Um, to retrace our steps, living room to the right. Disregard the mess, that's all Arthur's fault, whatever he says to the contrary. And then up here…" We reach yet another closed door, and he slams on it with his fist. "Arthur, come out and say hi to Catherine!"

                A muffled voice shouts back, "I'm not decent!"

                David lowers his voice and mutters, "You've seen men not decent, right?"

                I blush in spite of myself. "Yes, of course I have."

                "She's seen men not decent!" He bangs on the door again. "C'mon Arthur."

                "You know, if he's indisposed, it's really not—" I falter when the door opens up. Arthur shuffles out, wearing only a pair of boxers and in the progress of pulling a shirt on. "Morning, Catherine," he says. At least, I'm almost positive that's what he says. It mostly comes out as an overly emphatic yawn. "If David blames something on me, it's actually probably of his doing."

                "Right okay that's a complete lie. Moving on now…" He again directs me onward, and Arthur rolls his eyes and retreats back into his room. "I think Rory's hiding in there with Arthur, so you'll just have to meet him later. Here we have the bathroom, which, as you might notice, has an elegant bathtub with claw feet… I've always wanted one of those," David adds with an embarrassed grin. "And then my room. Which we'll now ignore because it's messy and not suitable to be examined by present company."

                Though I want to object, I do not. I just smile and follow him back to the living room. He plops down on the couch and instructs me to, "Sit wherever." Without a moment's thought, I settle in beside him.

                "So," David says, and I can tell that he is working hard to remain casual. "Assuming you still don't want to explain to me what exactly happened between you and your sister—"

                "You assume correctly."

                "—Then unless you have any suggestions for how we spend our time, I was just getting started on a Star Wars marathon when you called. Does that sound acceptable?"

                I shrug. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, I've never watched them before."

                David stares at me for such an extended period of time that I'm beginning to wonder if he even heard me. And then: "You _what_? I didn't know there was a single person alive who hadn't seen Star Wars."

                "Well I suppose I'm that person."

                "That's changing right now. You're not leaving 'til we've finished them all. Arthur! Order pizza, Catherine's never seen Star Wars!"

                Arthur emerges again and peers around the corner. "I don't know whether I should be more bothered by the fact that you think that's logical, or the fact that I understand why you think it's logical."

                "I think a little bit of both would be good," I say cheerfully.

                "David, have I mentioned that I like her? Because I like her. Now, don't start the movie yet, I have to go order that pizza."

                I end my evening much in the same manner as I ended the evening before, with my head on David's shoulder as I drift off toward sleep—repeatedly, because every time he catches me closing my eyes, he nudges me to keep me paying attention. At last, the credits roll.

                "Arthur, lemme borrow your car to take her home."

                "You don't need to do that!" I exclaim. "It's not that late."

                "It is too. Arthur, please?"

                This prompts quite a dramatic sigh. "Do you promise you won't crash it this time?"

                I sit straight up and look at David suspiciously. "You crashed his car and now you're trying to drive me home?"

                "I did not crash his car!"

                Arthur laughs and tosses him the key. "Fine, maybe he didn't crash, but ask him to tell you about the unfortunate incident with the fire hydrant."

                David cannot get me out of the apartment fast enough after that.

                "So that was fun," he says, as we're buckling into our seats.

                I smile and nod, braving a glance his way. He's grinning at me, and the sight makes my own smile even wider. "It was. Even though it was a bit disconcerting that the special effects got abruptly awful halfway through the series."

                He sighs and rolls his eyes. "And so my attempt to cheer you up from this morning was successful, I take it?"

                "Yeah…" I have every intention of saying more. Perhaps of thanking him. Perhaps of making conversation. But I trail off as I begin to think of the circumstances of the morning. And I remember Twig. I remember calling him, and resolving to give it another go after a little while.

                That certainly didn't happen. I can't help feeling a bit guilty, after that. More than a bit guilty. Especially when we reach my place and David leans over, giving me a hug, "for whatever that thing was" that had me so worked up. And I can't help it that I smile.


	5. Chapter 5: David

                The next morning, I am woken up at only 6am when my phone rings. There are exactly four people who would be able to call me at 6am and (probably) live to tell the tale: Arthur, who is sleeping in the room next to me; Catherine, who got home late enough that I certainly hope she's not awake yet; Matt who, were he awake, would know better; and Jenna, my younger sister, who, were she awake, would certainly _not_ know better.

                And so of course it's her.

                "What the fuck do you want?"

                "Well good morning to you too, big brother. It sounds almost as though you're not happy to hear from me."

                I sit up and yawn deeply into the phone. "Pardon me if I'd rather be sleeping. Seriously though, what is it that you want? Maybe if you ask fast enough, I'll be able to fall back asleep. And if your intention is to ask me for money, I'll save you the trouble and direct you to Dad instead."

                "No, I'm not asking for money. I'm hurt that I call you at 6 in the morning and you automatically assume I'm asking for money. What would I need money for anyway?"

                "Bail, maybe," I offer. "I don't know what you get up to at college."

                "I'm not doing things that could get me arrested. And I swear I'm not asking you for money."

                "Then what _are_ you asking for? Because I can't remember the last time you called me up just to chat."

                She sighs. "Well, it's not so much me asking you as it is me actually informing you."

                Oh God. Wherever this is going, it's nowhere good. "Informing me of what? What's going on?"

                "I'm coming to visit you!"

                "You're _what_?!"

                Jenna has the nerve to giggle, and I am suddenly struck by the thought that I quite possibly will not be getting more sleep, not if I'm panicking over this. "Not for a little while, but I just bought the tickets and I've emailed you the itinerary. And I don't expect you to pick me up or drop me off at the airport or anything… Just let me crash on your couch and that'll be good."

                "Oh, that's all. Let's disregard the fact that every time you come to visit, you eat us out of house and home."

                "But isn't that your problem for just not keeping the refrigerator properly stocked?"

                "No. It's really not."

                "Also, I fully expect to meet your special girl of the moment."

                "My 'special girl of the moment'?"

                "I figured that 'flavor of the month' sounded too rude. Would you rather I use that instead?"

                If I didn't know any better, I would wonder if Matt or Arthur somehow communicated with her and told her to say this to me. I know that there's no reason to be so paranoid, but it would certainly explain her sudden urge to come visit, and to meet my 'special girl of the moment'. "Believe it or not, I'm not dating anyone right now. Haven't been for almost six months."

                "Really? That's quite a long time for you."

                Yes. Yes it is. "I've noticed, actually, yeah."

                "And you don't have your sights set on anyone?"

                I consider my options. If I tell her about Catherine, she will want to meet her. Either that or, once I explain the situation—if it can be explained, because I confess that after the way she spent the past two nights lying all over me, I'm a bit foggy on the details myself—she'll ask me why I'm wasting my time. And I'm not particularly interested in either eventuality. "Not right now."

                "That's not much like you. Unless you're just trying to keep something from me. In which case I'll have a little heart-to-heart with Arthur once I fly in, and he'll get me caught up soon enough. I'll talk to you later, David."

                Rather than bid her farewell, I hang up, face plant into my pillow and let out a groan. Jenna has an unfortunate tendency to be frank with me and always tell it like it is, regardless of how much it inevitably offends me. And I love her for it, I do. You gotta have someone in your life who's always brutally honest, and I'm glad that for me, that's Jenna.

                But whatever her opinion will be of Catherine, I doubt I'll want to hear it, as with all other brutally honest opinions.

                I wonder, and not for the first time, whether maybe Arthur's right. Of course I would never tell him that the thought has occurred to me. Because I _do_ love getting to know Catherine as just a friend, without the outrageous and unnecessary expectations of a full-fledged relationship. But since that very first coffee non-date, and over the course of this past month or so, it's begun to feel like a relationship. Minus the dates and the making out and the sex and the actual acknowledgment of a relationship. And at that ridiculous party on Friday, and while we were watching Star Wars last night, she curled up into me and on both occasions, I never wanted the moment to end because I can't remember the last time I felt so happy.

                Except for the fact that I kept also remembering the boyfriend she refuses to tell me anything about, and kept wondering whether she realized exactly what she was doing and genuinely thought that it was okay. On that particular matter, the jury is still out, mostly because I can't figure out what I'm hoping for.

                I roll over to stare up at the ceiling. About a year and a half ago, I spent an hour jumping on the bed and attaching glow-in-the-dark stars above my head. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but since then, I have questioned the decision more than once—mostly when girls have asked me how I can have such a broad vocabulary but still be childish enough to go to the trouble of putting glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling.

                But I must say that when I am struck by a bout of pensive ponderings, it's certainly nicer to stare at them than to stare at a vast emptiness of white.

                I bet Catherine wouldn't think the stars are weird. She'd probably appreciate them and agree that it suits my eccentric state of being. Or something.

                I want to call her. Or text. But it's far too early for that. I don't want to put anyone through what Jenna was thoughtless enough to do to me. Besides which, I last saw Catherine approximately six and a half hours ago. If I'm not careful, she's going to start thinking that I'm desperate.

                Which I might be, just a little bit. I mean, from the moment I met her, I could tell she was something special. And it's been quite a while since then. I can't help it if I'm getting a bit impatient for her to come to terms with the fact that I am clearly a better match for her than What's-His-Name will ever be.

                If Arthur were awake, and if he were privy to the specific details of my internal dialogue, he would take this opportunity to note that I am most specifically eager for her to come to this realization solely so that I can finally sleep with her.

                That is, of course, absurd. Plenty of other reasons exist. None of them come to mind in my current, sleep-addled state, but there are other reasons.

                It is, however, a much larger reason than I'd like to admit.

                Although in my defense, as Jenna pointed out, six months sans girlfriend is quite a stretch for me. So let's be frank (although I will still remain David)—if I've got this girl, and we're basically dating, and I'm into her and she's into me, sex seems to be the next plausible step.

                Unless it's Catherine. Apparently.

                And that pisses me off. On occasion. At least, on those rare occasions when I allow myself to stew over it.

                I linger in bed for as long as I can stand it, but at no point do I come anywhere close to falling back to sleep. Finally, I have no choice but to wander into the kitchen to find something to eat for breakfast. To my surprise, Arthur is already in there, leaning against the counter as he slurps up his cereal.

                "What are you doing up?" I ask.

                "Your phone woke me. Who the fuck was calling you at 6 in the morning? And if you say that it was Catherine, I swear to God I will gouge your eyes out with this spoon."

                Part of me wants to test this claim, but I decide against it. As I open the refrigerator up and peer into it, I say, "It was Jenna. She's coming to visit."

                "Oh! That's awesome, I love when Jenna's here. It makes it so much easier to drive you insane. When's she coming in?"

                "She didn't tell me. Apparently she emailed me the itinerary, but I haven't checked that yet. I'm assuming it won't be for a little while, though. One thing I can say about her is that she's always sure to give us notice."

                For lack of anything else edible, I pull out the box of pizza from yesterday and set it out so that I can eat our meager leftovers.

                "Well, I spent the past hour preparing a great speech about how you're an ass for leaving your phone on, but since you've told me that it was your sister, I feel like I can't be properly angry. So you're getting off this time with a warning."

                "Thank God for that."

                He drops the now empty bowl into the sink and takes a sip of his coffee before asking, "So, did you tell her about Catherine?"

                "Why would I do that?"

                "God, sometimes I wonder why I put up with you," Arthur exclaims. "Because Jenna always asks about your love life, and right now, Catherine is the closest thing you've got to a girlfriend. Plus, I'd just actually really love to hear what your sister might have to say in regards to this particular matter… But you'd rather not know, which is exactly why you didn't say anything."

                I let out a sigh. "She asked me if I've got a girlfriend. I said no. That's it." Close enough, at least. He won't know the difference.

                But he still examines me quite suspiciously for a few moments. "You know I fully intend to sell you out as soon as she walks through that door."

                "Right. So why on earth would I keep it from her?"

                Maybe by the time she's here, this whole mess will have sorted itself out. I mean, hey. I can dream, at least.

                "I don't know," he says slowly. "You've come up with some fairly dastardly plans in your day. You could be working an angle that I haven't figured out yet."

                "I don't work angles," I assure him.

                Arthur sighs and shakes his head. "I'm going to take a shower. Remember, today's the day that Matt's dragging us to Alex's showing, so don't go and make other plans or he'll kill you. And she might, too, if she finds out that you were supposed to be there."

                "Yeah, yeah, I know. It's not like I had anything else to do."

                He gives me a little wave as he departs, and I salute him.

                Rather than driving downtown—which, despite the fact that it's Sunday, would still have egregious parking prices—we agreed that it would be best for Matt to drive over to our apartment, and then we could all take the El together. When he arrives, he takes one look at me and says, "Are you seriously wearing _that_?"

                I look down at my clothes, suddenly very self-conscious. "What's wrong with how I'm dressed?"

                "We're not going to some party to hang out with friends, David. We're going to an art opening. No one shows up to an art opening in a plaid shirt and fucking skinny jeans."

                "They're… black skinny jeans…"

                "Yeah, that really doesn't make it any better. Go change, c'mon."

                "I tried to tell him!" Arthur shouts from the living room.

                Matt gives him a once-over. "You're not much better, but at least you're wearing a jacket. I swear, you two are hopeless."

                "You know we only keep you around for your sage fashion advice." I pat him on the back before I retreat to my room in search of what Matt would consider to be suitable attire for this shindig.

                When I emerge at last, he looks me up and down and nods approvingly. "I can't remember the last time I saw you wearing a tie."

                "That's because I don't wear ties," I grumble.

                "Shame, that. If you could just make yourself look presentable more often, you wouldn't have to worry about Catherine because all the girls would be flocking to you; you could have the pick of the crop."

                I don't particularly want all of the girls flocking to me, and I come very close to ripping Arthur to shreds and saying that, without a doubt, Catherine _would_ be the pick of the crop. Also I can't help noticing that he's mixing his bird and plant metaphors. But I don't say any of that. Instead, I glance down at my watch and announce, "We're going to be late if we don't leave soon."

                "Oh, then we had better get going, hadn't we?"

                "Yes, I think we better had…"

                I roll my eyes and only barely refrain from giving both of them as hard of a time as they're—perpetually, it seems—giving me.

                And in my defense, we do end up arriving late. This can be blamed on Matt's brilliant idea to transfer over to the Brown line at Belmont rather than wait and transfer to the Pink line once we get into the loop. So we wait. And wait. And continue waiting. Outbound train after outbound train comes through the station, with no inbound trains in sight.

                Finally, the train comes, but we are still bickering about it when we disembark at Quincy, and for the duration of our walk to the studio where Alex's show is taking place. And as we enter the building, and ride the elevator up.

                "I'm just saying that I've always found the Pink line to be more reliable." Or at least, more reliable than that mess we just went through.

                "That's such bull shit! Up until today, I had never in my life had major problems with the Brown line, and I started riding the El regularly when I was barely old enough to walk."

                I lean over and mutter to Arthur, "Well that's an exaggeration if I've ever heard one."

                Matt throws his hands up in the air. "Honestly, I make one mistake, and David holds it over my head for weeks. We can't all be as perfect as you, bro, I'm sorry."

                "Well, maybe it's something to which you could aspire. Though I must warn, you, sometimes I wonder whether it's a blessing or a curse."

                The doors to the elevator open and we emerge into a large room. Given that we're tardy, a crowd is already assembled, and people are milling around, examining the photos that are scattered throughout the studio. Alex is standing not far off, and at the sound of the elevator doors closing, she turns to look in our direction. Immediately, she excuses herself from her conversation and rushes over to us.

                "What on earth took you so long? I feel so unloved."

                "Matt made a _pretty_ moronic call about—"

                "It was no big deal," he says, glaring at me. "We're not that late, though. It's only been, what, twenty minutes?"

                "Yes, but you know us artists with our sensitivities. I was imagining that you were all lying dead in a ditch. Or you were intentionally avoiding the show because you don't like my work. Either way, it would have been a tragedy. So I'm glad to see you here."

                We all smile and laugh, and Arthur assures her that he's always been astonished by how incredible her photography is. But my eyes are caught by a flash of red hair in the other room. Just like that, my focus has been completely diverted. I peer around a panel—some photo is printed on it, but its subject barely registers—to get a better look at the woman.

                I clap a hand distractedly on Arthur's shoulder, announcing, "I'll be back." If they say anything in response, I do not hear it.

                I weave through the crowd, an overwhelming single-mindedness taking me over. Running over possible remarks, something that does not make me sound like a total tool.

                She's in the middle of a conversation with Freema, and for just a moment, I am hesitant about intruding. But I can't fight the compulsion for long, and so I sidle up to them, saying, "Hey Freema! It's been a while, hasn't it?"

                "Oh my God, yes! It's so good to see you, David!" She pulls me in for a hug. "You know Catherine, right?"

                "Yeah, I do. Fancy meeting you here," I say with a small smile.

                Catherine chuckles. "Yes, how strange it is to run into me at my boss's art showing. It seems to me that I should be remarking that it's strange for me to run into you here, wouldn't you agree?"

                "Very much so, but I can't exactly preface a conversation with, 'fancy you meeting me here,' can I?"

                She grins, and I grin, and Freema stares between us like she's missing something. Which, I suppose, she is.

                "Thanks for yesterday, by the way," Catherine says suddenly. "Really. I needed that. So… yeah. Thanks."

                "Of course! I hope you know that you're welcome to come over any time. Although maybe next time, not while Arthur's around. He certainly does tend to put a damper on things."

                "Um, hey guys, I'll talk to you later, I'm just gonna…" Freema trails off, evidently unsure of what sort of excuse she should be making.

                "Oh, okay! I'll see you on Tuesday."

                "Hang around for a while!" I tell her. "I want to come find you later so that we can catch up."

                "Yeah, sounds good."

                It occurs to me that if I'm not careful, I will lose track of time and spend the entire evening chatting with Catherine if she will let me. And based on the tone of Freema's response, she thinks this is quite likely. If I find her this evening, I have no doubt that she'll be rather surprised.

                As soon as she's gone, Catherine says, "So, she's going to interrogate me as soon as I walk into work…"

                "Why?" I ask, bemused.

                She giggles uncomfortably. "That exchange was kind of odd, don't you think?"

                "I didn't really notice."

                "Well, it was. It was a little bit suggestive."

                If she thought that was suggestive, I long to see her reaction to any of the countless thoughts that goes through my head at the very sight of her. "Oh, I see." Wouldn't it be nice to know how Catherine will try to explain all of this away?

                "Yeah. I'm not quite sure what I'll tell her…"

                An awkward silence follows. I feel like she expects me to provide her with a suggestion for some sort of excuse, but I have no intention of doing so. When Catherine realizes that I will not be adding anything note-worthy to that particular line of conversation, she changes the subject. "I called my sister this morning, and we had a nice chat. I apologized for overreacting, and she apologized for saying what she did."

                "I'm very glad to hear it. I'm guessing you still have absolutely no intention of explaining to me what it is that you were bickering about?"

                "Afraid not." She smiles timidly. "Does that bother you?"

                "Yes, but if you're determined not to explain, then there's nothing I can do about it."

                Catherine looks more than a little taken aback by my honesty. "I'm sorry. I just… I figured that it would bother you more to know than to not know."

                "Maybe you could let me make that choice instead."

                "Do you really want to know?"

                The more she tries to convince me otherwise, the more I know I have to hear about it. "Yes. Please, explain."

                So she does. She tells me that her boyfriend, Twig, whom she had previously suspected of cheating on her, no longer seems to be doing anything suspicious. She tells me that when he called her—when she was asleep in my arms and he called her—he left a message saying that he loved her. And that Karen was thoughtless enough to suggest that maybe he said it because he felt guilty. But now she and Karen have made up, and she's talked to Twig and she's perfectly happy.

                Maybe, I think, maybe I shouldn't have asked her to explain.


	6. Chapter 6: Catherine

                It does not surprise me that Freema doesn't ask me about David when we first arrive at work on Tuesday. We certainly have more that we can discuss than our relationships. But as she waits, and waits, and at no point hints in the direction of Alex's showing this past weekend, I find myself eventually itching to discuss it so desperately that I almost bring it up myself.

                Thankfully, I don't have to, because finally, she does ask. "So, I couldn't help but notice on Sunday that there seemed to be this weird… energy between you and David. Is something going on there?"

                "Why would you say that?" I ask, doing my best to maintain a composure of nonchalance. "I've got Twig."

                "But last time we talked about Twig, you said you were almost certain that he's cheating on you."

                People keep alluding back to that, and I don't get why they can't see that this assumption can be attributed entirely to an extreme misjudgment of character that is no longer worth discussing. "Oh, I've forgotten, you don't know about this yet—he told me this weekend that he loves me."

                "How does that change the fact that he didn't return your calls for two weeks and that your mom swears up and down that she saw him out at dinner with a woman?"

                "No, she does not 'swear up and down' that she saw him. She conceded that it was a very bad view and that she was on her way out the door but that this man she saw vaguely resembled the man I'd shown her in photos… I just let that knowledge get the better of me, since he also hadn't called me back. But that's not a problem anymore."

                Freema raises her eyebrows at me. "So now that he's said that he loves you, all of that panic just goes away? Don't you think that might be a little premature? Your willingness to just forgive and forget, I mean. If my boyfriend ignored me for two weeks, I would very cheerfully instruct him not to let his ass hit him on the way out my door. And I'm not trying to tell you to do that, since obviously you have every right to make your own decision, but don't you think it might be a good idea to take some time and really figure out whether you're really happy in a relationship with a guy who will not return your calls, and then decides to make it all better with a declaration of love?"

                Unlike Karen, who seemed to be making an all-out attack against me, Freema presents a rather valid point, and the thought disquiets me. "Maybe you're right," I say slowly. "Maybe I should at least talk to him about it."

                "Yeah, I mean, it couldn't hurt, could it? Besides…" She grins at me. "If it doesn't go the way you were hoping, I'm sure David will be around and perfectly willing to pick up the pieces."

                I roll my eyes. "Fuck off."

                She protests, but I turn to the woman who's been waiting for me to take her order. "May I help you?"

                "Yes, would you continue discussing the soap opera that is your life? I find it fascinating. Who's this David who will be prepared to pick up the pieces when your current relationship inevitably ends?"

                Freema barely manages to suppress what I can only guess to be a severe laughing fit. I sigh and say, "I meant that I'll take your order now. And my life is not a soap opera."

                "Once I order, will you keep talking about it?"

                "Doubtful. What kind of coffee would you like, ma'am?"

                She shrugs. "I completely forgot what I was going to order because I was getting so invested. Give me a moment to make up my mind again."

                I grit my teeth. "Alrighty then."

                Freema takes this opportunity to say, "Catherine, can I tell you something? Girl to girl, complete sincerity, something I never admitted to anyone."

                With the reluctance concern, I say, "Alright, go on."

                "Yes, please go on!" the customer exclaims.

                I glare at her. "You, pick your drink. Okay Freema, what is it?"

                "About two years ago, I had a crush on David."

                The woman lets out a gasp. Meanwhile, I stare at Freema, startled. I don't know what sort of reaction she expects from me, so I just say, "Um, okay. And?"

                "Well, when Matt first started working here, David would come in a lot to visit him. So if I was here and we'd talk sometimes. He was cute and kind of flirtatious, so I thought that maybe there was potential for something there. But I quickly figured out that I wasn't really his type, especially when I started going out with him and his friends every so often and saw the girls that he would usually chat up at bars. I sometimes wondered if maybe he had some lingering feelings for Billie. And maybe he did back then, I don't know. Even if he didn't, they certainly stayed closer than most exes I know."

                "And where are you going with this?" I ask warily. As if I wasn't wondering about Billie already, now I'm going to be even more worried.

                "You don't look like those other girls, but I never saw him look at any of those girls like he looks at you. Every time I saw him on Sunday, he only had eyes for you. And yeah, he did come over to me and we did have a chance to catch up, but he seemed distracted and lost and I have no doubt that he was just looking around for you and eager to find you again. So I guess just… figure out what it is that you want. He might be content to wait right now, but he won't want to wait forever. And if you decide that Twig is who you want, then make that clear to David, okay?"

                I take a deep breath and nod. "Yeah. Okay. You're right. I'll… I'll think about it." I turn to the customer. Now, another woman is waiting behind her, who looks to be equally invested in the conversation between me and Freema. "Have you decided now?"

                "Yeah, I guess I'll have a large white chocolate mocha… Also, I definitely think you should dump this Twig guy and go for David instead."

                "I second that!" the other woman adds.

                "I appreciate your much-wanted insight," I mutter.

                Freema makes no more mention of the matter, and for that I am grateful. I've got enough to mull over as it is.

                Right near closing, Alex comes into the shop. I am very rarely at the shop at the same time as Alex unless we're having mandatory employee meetings, because I always work afternoon and evening shifts and she's usually around in the mornings.

                "Hello ladies," she says brightly.

                This is not a good sign. Alex is only ever so genial when she wants something out of us. Freema dares to ask the question that is on both of our minds. "Hi Alex. What are you going to ask us to do now?"

                She sighs. "Do I need an excuse to come in and say hello to two of my favorite employees?" We both nod. "Fine. Noel can't come in tomorrow, so I need one of you to work in his stead."

                Freema and I groan. As the assistant manager, Noel works full-day shifts. Taking his place would be absolutely brutal.

                "Please? I'm desperate. I'll even pay you time and a half. If I ask Matt to work the full day, he'll throw a fit, and I've got plans tomorrow evening so if I had to cancel those… well, it wouldn't be very pretty for anyone involved."

                Mostly because I know that Freema could win a stare-down with me any day, I finally relent. "Alright, I'll do it. But I'm holding you to that promise of time and a half. For the whole day, too, don't try to pull some crap where you give it to me for just a few hours."

                "Yes, yes, whatever you want. Just so long as I get my date."

                I nod. "I'll be here tomorrow morning."

                On my way home that night, I call Karen. "Catherine, what a surprise! I wasn't expecting to hear from you today."

                Although her tone is one of complete sincerity, I think that she might be kidding, because I call her at such unexpected moments that it's always worth expecting me. "Yeah, I know, but I thought I should let you know now that I'm going to have to bail on you for dinner tomorrow."

                "Oh, that sucks. What's come up?"

                "I gotta work," I say sadly. "Alex promised to pay me extra and I'm a sucker for things that help me to, y'know, pay for my living expenses so that I don't have to resort to living on the streets."

                "Yeah, I totally get it. Maybe I'll call Matt, then, see if he wants to move our date up a few days…"

                I chuckle. "That's not going to happen. He's working the later shift with me."

                "Wow, way to crush all of my hopes and dreams."

                "That's what I'm here for!" I chirp.

                "Bye, sis."

                "Talk to you soon."

                I want to call David, or text him, and see what he's been up to in the last… 24 hours or so since we last spoke. But as soon as that thought comes to mind, I think of Freema, and of her warning. And suddenly, talking to David doesn't seem like a particularly good idea.

                Doesn't make me want to any less. In fact, I almost want to more, if only to prove that there's no problem with me talking to a guy who is a friend of mine to whom I also just so happen to be attracted. Nothing about that is me leading him on.

                Still, though, I hesitate. Until I look up and see the man sitting across from me, and I can't help but giggle.

 

> Look David, I found Waldo.

 

                I snap a photo to accompany the text, giving him a good view of the man—wearing a red and white striped shirt and hat, and even possessing the necessary wide-rimmed glasses and black hair that complete the look.

                He replies almost immediately.

 

> Bit late to the party. Photo from Halloween fourteen years ago.

 

                It takes everything in me not to let out a shriek right there on the bus. At the most, I would guess that David is thirteen or fourteen. He is, of course, in full Waldo attire, and he's grinning broadly at the camera. It is quite possibly the most adorable photo I've ever seen.

                Not that I can say that, of course.

 

> You're the cutest.

 

                Probably not much better, but it's also true, and I can think of nothing else.

                David does not reply all night, and I try to pretend that it doesn't bother me. I don't think I do a very good job.

                When I wake up in the morning, I call Twig, and he doesn't pick up. David has still not gotten back to me. I walk into the Daily Grind with a scowl on my face and Alex notices.

                "I suppose I should ask you what the sour face is for, but I'm more concerned about whether you intend to wipe it away in favor of a smile within the next fifteen minutes so that our customers don't think they're talking to a disagreeable barista."

                "Yeah, don't worry about it."

                She crosses her arms and leans against the counter, scrutinizing me. "You know that I was joking, right? Why the long face?"

                "Men are dicks," I say simply.

                "Quite true, yes." Alex chuckles. "What's the dickish behavior in this case?"

                "Well, my boyfriend won't pick up his phone, and my… friend won't text me back." The word 'friend' does not seem to properly embody the relationship between me and David, but the title that comes closest is already in use.

                "Oh, sweetie, David will come around. He's probably just still upset about what you told him on Sunday."

                What I told him on Sunday? What? "Wait, how'd you know I was talking about David? And what do you mean 'what I told him on Sunday'? What did I tell him? How did you hear about it? I… what?"

                "You told him that you and your boyfriend were patching things up! According to Matt, he's frightfully disappointed about it… It was all we talked about yesterday morning. Literally, almost all we talked about; it's kind of disconcerting to me how invested your friends seem to be in this whole drama. Honestly, you could talk about television or your careers or classic literature or something every once in a while… You act like such intellectuals so be intellectuals for once, for Christ's sake." The first customer comes through the door, and Alex pushes away from the counter. "Really, though, just give him a few days to lick his wounds and he'll be back. Now let's not talk about it anymore because discussion of your love life is quite possibly going to give me an aneurysm if we keep up this way."

                After this revelation, it's a wonder that I'm able to focus on taking people's orders, although I do as Alex instructed and plaster a wide smile onto my face.

                I told him that he wouldn't want to hear about it. But he insisted. Why is he ignoring me when I simply did as he requested and decided to be honest with him? That certainly seems unfair.

                Eventually, Matt arrives to take Alex's place, and she happily says goodbye, but not before coming over to me and murmuring, "If you're still angsting over this mess next time I see you, I'm rescinding that promise for time and a half."

                "That's… that's not… I don't exactly have control over the situation."

                "Sounds to me like you've got complete control. It's just that right now you're basically an ostrich with your head in the sand. Have a good day, you two! Don't forget to lock up, Matt."

                "Hey! That was one time, must you bring that up? No one took anything, there was no harm done…"

                She laughs and shakes her head. "I still wonder why I didn't fire you on the spot after that… But seriously, goodbye." With a wave and a flourish, she is out the door.

                I turn to him immediately. "You seriously forgot to lock up once? How'd it take me so long to hear about this?"

                Matt rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Yeah, I did. But y'know, it was one time, there was a girl involved… It was a mistake anyone could have made."

                "Oh yeah, of course." I laugh. "Never question the lengths to which a horny guy will go in order to get laid."

                "Precisely!" His eyes widen. "But don't mention that to your sister, because I'd hate to lose a chance with her before we've even gone on date number one."

                "You underestimate my sister; I think she'd find it more hilarious than I do."

                "Really?"

                "Almost definitely."

                He smiles and nods. "I knew I liked her for a reason."

                Although Matt and I have worked shifts together on occasion, we don't maintain the same degree of conversation that I do with Freema and Alex. Now that I know he spent all of yesterday talking about me with Alex, I find it even weirder to think of conversing with him. For all I know, any or all of what I say to him might end up being reported to David. That's a weird thought. It makes me second-guess everything I've ever said to Matt or around him; who knows what he might have repeated.

                Then, out of the blue, he says, "Could I ask you something?" Well, I am understandably worried. What if David has asked him to convey some message.

                So I say, "Um, I suppose. What is it?" All too ready to tell him that no, I don't feel comfortable answering this, or no, let's not talk about that.

                "Is Karen really that much of a partier?"

                This question catches me completely off-guard. "Is who, what?"

                He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "Your sister. She seemed totally in her element last Friday and that's cool. I actually kind of liked it, since most of my friends have decided that they're beyond that stage now. But like… is she able to have a good time when she's not hanging out in a big crowd and getting drunk?"

                "Oh!" I am slightly stunned by the concern in his voice, but I also can't help but find it incredibly endearing. "Yeah, of course. Karen… She likes to have a good time, and sometimes she wants to be the center of attention. But she's not a partier 24/7. She likes to be low-key sometimes, and I'm sure that she'll be delighted to be low-key with you. I happen to know that she's actually super pumped about your date."

                "She is?" Matt's eyes light up. "Really?"

                "Totally. Actually, I called her last night—she and I had dinner plans that I had to cancel since Alex dragged me in to work today—and she was like, 'Oh, maybe I'll see if Matt can go out instead.' Then she was super bummed when I said you'd be working too. I guarantee you, she's totally into it."

                He grins. "Thanks Catherine. I was… kind of worried, but I'm not anymore."

                "You have no reason to be worried. I know you two will hit it off so well."

                I get a text not long after that. I open it up and see a photo of David and Arthur's dog,, up-close and personal. Far closer to his face than I would ever dare to put my phone, but I suppose dog people are like that and David's a dog person if I ever saw one.

 

> Rory is noticing the absence of a particular ginger in his life and thinks you should come back to visit soon. Star Trek this time, his treat.

 

                I stifle a giggle.

 

> Only met me once, and already missing me? Am I really that bewitching?
> 
> Yes. And then some.

               

                As though I am suddenly under extreme scrutiny, I promptly begin to blush and look around, to see if anyone is watching me. Matt is, but he mostly seems to be puzzled by my sudden onslaught of paranoia.

 

> Okay. Then tell him that soon I will come back and we can watch Star Track.
> 
> LOL. Close enough.

 

                Maybe guys aren't such dicks after all. 


	7. Chapter 6B: Matt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, this is a little interjection within the David/Catherine narration--partially created just for the sake of boosting word count (as I am doing this for NaNo), but it does serve legitimate purposes, as well. Even if you don't know what those purposes are yet. Ehehe.

                In the interest of full disclosure, I announce it almost as soon as I've picked Karen up from her apartment. "So I'm gonna be honest, I was a little worried about this. A date, I mean. With you."

                Karen nods. "I know. I'm afraid my sister told on you."

                "God, of course she did. What a gossip."

                "You shouldn't worry. She also said that she's been thinking of setting us up practically since the moment she met you, and Catherine's usually got a good sense for relationships."

                I snort. "Yeah, usually."

                "And what do you mean by that, exactly?"

                One glance at Karen is enough to know that I'm suddenly walking on very thin ice. "Oh, no, don't… it's just that I mean, like, she can't sort out her own mess."

                "Oh!" Any misunderstanding effectively cleared up, she laughs. "Yes. This is in no way a new thing. She's always had abysmal taste in boys. Mom and Dad always hate her boyfriends, and not in the nice, bad boy way either, but just in the 'he's sort of a dick and can't you tell?' kind of way. David's the first guy she's been interested in that I've liked, so obviously she refuses to admit that he's better than the one she's already with."

                "Does she talk about him much?"

                "God, all the _time_! I don't think she even realizes it, is the sad thing. Like, I cannot remember the last time I had a conversation with her where David's name did not crop up somewhere. We can go a _week_ sometimes without discussing Twig, but it's like she has an imaginary quota she has to meet for mentioning this guy she still sometimes tries to tell me she doesn't have feelings for!"

                "David's always trying to tell me and Arthur that he'd rather get to know her as 'just a friend' than not get to know her at all. Does she give you that one?"

                "Nearly every day."

                "And through it all, they still fawn over each other like lovesick teenagers."

                "I'm just so tired of hearing about David all the fucking time," she grumbles.

                "My thoughts exactly. Always whining and moping about… I sprained my wrist about a month and a half ago, don't know if David even noticed because he was so involved in his little soap opera."

                "Jesus, are you serious? How did it happen? Are you okay?"

                "Yeah, I'm fine now. I just tripped down the stairs leaving my apartment one day. Not exactly a glamorous war story." I kind of like it, how completely concerned she has suddenly become.

                "Well, yeah, but the fact that it's not glamorous doesn't diminish its significance. And the fact that David didn't even notice… that's ridiculous. God, they're so incredibly self-involved."

                "They really are." I pause for a moment, and clear my throat. "We're totally pandering to them, aren't we?"

                "Completely, yeah. It's fucking awful how much attention we're paying to the whole ordeal."

                "Arthur and I've got a bet going about how long it'll take them to finally throw caution to the wind and have at it like rabbits."

                "Really? What are your estimates?"

                "Well, he's almost screwed—he had his money on it happening by Black Friday, and that's two weeks from today so the clock is ticking and honestly, the chances of them pulling it together by them are slim to none. I went the safer route and said sometime before Christmas."

                "You should probably tell Arthur that he should start worrying even more, because she and I are flying home the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. Not that those two days will make much difference…"

                "Ah, that's good to know. I'll inform him just in case."

                "Personally, I can't imagine them getting together until a month, minimum, after she finally breaks up with Twig, which I imagine will happen sometime before Christmas. So I guess that means sex in January, yeah?"

                "Is his name seriously Twig?"

                She laughs. "I only wish I were kidding. Yes. Yes it is."

                "That's fucking painful. What kind of name is that to shout in bed?"

                "You clearly ask the hard-hitting questions."

                I flash a grin her way. "Always. Now c'mon, let's drop the subject. Their love-life is none of our concern."

                She agrees, and we let the conversation fade.

                And sit in silence.

                Finally I sigh and look over at her. "It's too much fun to make fun of them, isn't it?"

                "A little bit, yeah," Karen says.

                "Fuck it, what they don't know won't hurt them."


	8. Chapter 7: David

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes hi make note of the rating change xoxo

                "Jesus, Arthur, I don't think I've ever seen you looking so sad about going home. Normally you won't shut up about it for days beforehand."

                Even now, as I'm driving him out to Midway, he's still pouting.

                "I think it might just be the prospect of being parted from you for such an extended period of time." He places a hand on my shoulder and grips it tightly, letting out a dramatic, wrenching sob.

                I shrug out of his grasp and frown slightly. "Alrighty then. Weirdo. My guess is that you'll recover in time."

                "Can a man ever really recover when he is forcefully separated from his best friend?"

                This level of weirdness is, even for Arthur, a bit extreme. I fidget in my seat, trying to keep my focus on the road. "Dude, whatever tone or vibe or whatever it is you're going for, chill out because it's making me a little uncomfortable. And when I say 'a little uncomfortable,' I mean that you're making me literally want to jump out of the car right onto the Stevenson, rather than sit through your remarks about how much you're going to miss me."

                "I don't appreciate your use of the word 'literally' in a scenario where you clearly are not being literal."

                "How do you know I'm not being literal? Maybe I feel that uncomfortable. You don't know. Just because I don't literally _do_ it doesn't mean that I don't literally _want_ to do it."

                "We're going 60 miles an hour. Sometimes you make some pretty insane decisions, but even you aren't insane enough to _literally_ want to jump out of a moving vehicle. Also, as a passenger, I would be entirely helpless upon your egress of said moving vehicle. You would be injured purely by the fall from the car, since we're moving at such a fast pace, but as if that isn't enough, the chances of you getting hit by another car are astronomically high. Once you tumbled out, I would most likely attempt to crawl over into the driver's seat, but given that the accelerator would not be held down, the car would be decreasing in speed and would also most likely be hit, and since I wouldn't be buckled in, it's quite likely that I'd go flying through the wind shield. The likelihood of this is so large that there's no way you would _literally_ want to jump out of the car."

                I scratch my head. "See, you'd think so, and maybe before you provided me with that explanation, I would have agreed with you. But actually experiencing what you just described would be preferable, I think, to having to listen to you describe it. Maybe I should thank you, because clearly if I mean it literally now, I didn't mean it literally then, so you were perfectly right in calling me out when you did.  Although you didn't know that I had the potential to mean it more literally, so you're still wrong."

                "Um, okay. I don't understand any of what you just said, so I'm just going to go back to lamenting the fact that I'll be separated from you for five whole days. How will I survive, David? It's so much easier to fall asleep at night, if I know that if I wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, I can run into the next room and climb into bed with you with an expectation of cuddles."

                "When on earth did we establish that rule?"

                "Just now. Next time I've got a bad dream, I expect cuddles."

                "I'm really confused about where this all is coming from."

                In the blink of an eye, Arthur's composure changes. He straightens in his seat, holds his shoulders back and his head high and out of the corner of my eye I see him shrug. "I don't know. I guess it's just fun to make you feel uncomfortable. Although y'know, sometimes after a nightmare, a cuddle buddy really would make all the difference…"

                "No. I'd really rather not be woken up in the middle of the night to find that you're crawling into my bed and are in need of a snuggle. I'm afraid that is not happening."

                "Worth a shot," he sighs.

                "Are you going to tell me what it is that's actually got you all bothered?"

                He shakes his head. "I have no intention of doing so, no. Just, y'know, Thanksgiving… it's come so fast… I don't think I'm ready."

                "I'm… still confused. Remind me why I asked you about this?"

                "Perhaps because you couldn't stand a momentary silence in a car with your best friend. Don't worry; the need for conversation sometimes drives even the best of us."

                Now, I let the conversation fade, if only so that I no longer have to listen to Arthur saying bizarre things that don't make any sense. There are two possible explanations for why he is being this way. On the one hand, there could be something that he's trying not to tell me, and so he's doing his best to distract me from whatever that thing is. On the other hand, he could just want me to think that there's something that he's trying not to tell me in order to make me feel paranoid and think that there's something that he's trying not to tell me so that I will spend the next five days trying to figure out what it is that he's trying not to tell me when, in fact, there is nothing that he's trying not to tell me except the fact that there's nothing he's trying not to tell me.

                Honestly, from Arthur, either possibility seems equally plausible. So I do the only thing I can and tune him out until, finally, we reach the airport.

                "Thanks for driving me to the airport, cutie."

                "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll be here on Sunday to pick you up."

                "What, no goodbye kiss?"

                I scowl. "You're pushing it, bro. I mean, you've been pushing it, but you're _really_ pushing it."

                He grins and punches me in the arm. "You gotta lighten up. I'll see you on Sunday. Don't do drugs, and make good choices!"

                Before I can yell at him anymore, he has stumbled out of the car and slammed the door. Purely because I'm thoughtful, I pop the trunk so that he can retrieve his suitcase. He waves, I wave back, and then he is gone, disappeared into the mass of people all rushing to make their own flights.

                Arthur religiously goes home three times a year—at Thanksgiving, at Easter, and for the 4th of July, because it happens to coincide with his dad's birthday. And every time he leaves, he always instructs me to "make good choices". As though he expects me to actually get up to some mischief when everyone is out of town.

                Me, though? I don't do anything out of the ordinary. I'm not like a little kid anymore, being left home alone while his parents go away for the weekend.

                Well, there was one time when I blasted "Old Time Rock & Roll" and glided around the apartment in just my socks and underwear, rocking out on air guitar, a la _Risky Business_.

                But that was _one time_ , and honestly if you claim that you've never done that then you're lying.

                And so other than that particular adventure—which, I'm embarrassed to admit, ended rather prematurely when I accidentally tripped and fell flat on my face—I do not get up to mischief. In fact, I generally operate under the assumption that if I do something stupid, Arthur will magically emerge from his bedroom and tell me off, as though he had never left in the first place.

                So in preparation for the following few days, I rented the five most recent seasons of _Doctor Who_ with every intention of marathon watching them all and not leaving the house until Sunday comes. My only human interaction will be with the delivery men bringing me pizza and Chinese food.

                Well, and I'll call my dad on Thursday. And maybe Jenna, if I feel up to it. But other than that, no human interaction.

                Because Arthur opted for an evening flight, I get stuck driving back through the city during rush hour. I fidget and bounce up and down, drumming my hands on the steering wheel impatiently as I inch along on Lake Shore Drive.

                For lack of anything better to do, I turn on the radio. Arthur perpetually leaves his radio set to 87.7, which likes to call itself an alternative station. This disgusts me, because any alternative station that still plays Mumford & Sons is clearly misinformed about the elements of alternative music.

                Personally, when I'm left to my own devices, I like to turn to the pop or country stations.

                This may or may not have something to do with the fact that most of the songs remind me of Catherine. And unlike alternative music, which is practically all angsty and depressing, country and pop are so upbeat. They're relatable and leave me hopeful that maybe I've got a chance with her. Like, for example, Taylor Swift's classic hit, "You Belong with Me". In that context, I am Taylor, and Twig is that, from the sound of it, very bitchy cheer captain in the short skirts and high heels.

                Then, of course, there's the ever-popular "I Wish" by One Direction. I confess to having sung that at the top of my lungs on more than one occasion while crusing down the Dan Ryan.

                So that's what I turn to now, and on the way home I am serenaded by the likes of Bruno Mars, Kelly Clarkson, Katy Perry, and Justin Timberlake. And I laugh because Arthur will never know that such music was being blasted from his car.

                Eventually, I emerge from the traffic unscathed and no worse for the wear. I almost sprint upstairs, and promptly call the Chinese place a few blocks away to order my dinner. Which will also be my breakfast. And depending on how far I can stretch it, possibly my lunch. I am so psyched.

                I've only just popped in the first disc when my phone rings. At the sight of the caller ID, I frown; what on earth could this be about? "Hi Catherine. How's it going?"

                "It's, um… it's going. Look, I'd hate to be an imposition, but could I come over?"

                I look around the living room and take in the mess; dishes strewn across the coffee table, a pile of my dirty clothes that I haven't yet gotten around to washing, a ton of nerf darts from the other day when I quite accidentally initiated an all-out nerf gun war with Arthur. Immediately, I am running around, trying to get the place into a state of semi-order. "That wouldn't be an imposition at all!" I say quickly. "I'm surprised that you're still in town, though. I thought everyone had left."

                "No, Karen has to work tomorrow so she and I are, um, we're flying out tomorrow night."

                "Okay, well yeah, come on over."

                "Thank you. I'll be there as soon as the trains let me."

                I scramble around and get the living room looking suitable. The delivery guy comes with my food. For lack of anything better to do, I start to eat the food. I sit perched on my couch, waiting. I wonder why she's coming. As she promised, she came over last Thursday evening, and together we watched Star Trek. When we parted, I think it's fair to say that we were both operating under the assumption that we would most likely not see one another again until after this whole holiday thing was over and done with.

                So I can't help but wonder what it was that possessed her to call and invite herself over. I could imagine her texting, maybe. Calling for a chat, maybe. But asking to come to my apartment… Well, last time she did that was because of a fight with her sister, so perhaps this was similarly provoked.

                I hop up and begin to pace back and forth in the hallway, willing her to ring the bell. Whatever attempts I make at telepathic communication are evidently unsuccessful, because she does not ring the bell.

                And then she does. I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding, press the button to buzz her in and speak into the intercom: "Come on up!"

                I stand behind the closed door, counting to five and taking in a deep breath. Preparing myself to put on a frown or a smile, all depending on her apparent mood within the first few moments that I see her. I open the door, and watch her round onto the landing.

                She's not crying, but she might as well be. Her features are completely distorted and her face is all red and splotchy. As soon as she catches sight of me, she runs up and flings her arms around me, pulling me into an iron lock of a hug. I realize that she was probably trying to fight back tears on her way over here, because almost as soon as I have wrapped her in my arms, she is letting out breathless sobs. At the sound, my heart catches in my throat, and I pull her in more tightly—a feat I could have hardly imagined possible, given how strong the embrace already was.

                "Hey, it's okay," I murmur. I rub gentle circles across her back as she cries into my chest. After weighing the pros and cons, I brave a kiss on the top of her head and for just a moment, she seems to falter before carrying on.

                Catherine starts to run out of steam, and her sobs become gradually diminished until they are nothing more than the occasional sharp intakes of breath. When I suspect that she is sufficiently calmed down, I pull away slightly and give her chin a little nudge with my knuckle so that she's looking up at me. Her eyes are bloodshot and her make-up is running down her face but I am still absolutely stunned by the sight of how gorgeous she is. I clear my throat and say gently, "Whatever it is that happened, do you want to come inside and talk about it?"

                "Not… not really." She bites her lip and I have to work very hard to push down a number of inappropriate thoughts that cross my mind about scenarios in which I could be biting that lip instead. "Maybe I could just come in and…"

                I wait for her to finish the sentence, but it seems that she has no intention of doing so. "Alright, you can come inside and… whatever." I hold the door open, and as she steps over the threshold she grabs my free hand. Okay. I wasn't really expecting that.

                We go into the living room and settle onto the couch. Catherine makes herself at home right away, scooting right up against me and resting her head on my shoulder. She seems to be a completely different person than she was the last time I saw her. I don't understand what could have possibly happened to make her this way, and I don't really feel comfortable not knowing. "Um, are you sure you don't want to talk about whatever it is that's going on?"

                "Pretty sure, yes."

                "Okay… Do you want to watch something?"

                "Not really. Could we maybe just sit here instead?"

                "Catherine, are you ever going to tell me why you're actually here?"

                She lifts her head from my shoulder and looks me in the eye. Our faces are mere inches apart, and I feel like I should create some distance between us but I don't have the will to move. "Why do you think I'm here, David? Have a guess."

                I frown. I swallow. "I don't know."

                "No David, go on: have a guess."

                "A-another fight with Karen?" I stammer.

                Catherine lets out a low, breathy laugh. "No. No fights."

                "Then why? What possessed you to come to me?" To come to me and have an extensive crying fit, I long to add.

                "I decided that it was about time that I did something that I've wanted to do since the moment I met you."

                Am I dreaming? Surely this can't be real. Not when I've imagined it, heard that line a thousand times over in my head. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, praying that this is real. When I open them, she's still in front of me, staring, waiting for me to ask the critical question.

                "About time that you did what?"

                Her lips are on mine before I can so much as blink. Even though I am expecting it, it still takes me a second to respond. And I can't blame myself—no amount of forlorn, lovesick imaginings could have been enough to really prepare me for what it would feel like for Catherine to kiss me. There's a desperation in it, in the way that she immediately sits up on her knees and leans into me until I am pressing up against the arm rest. She cups my face in her hands, and it is at this point that I remember that I, too, possess appendages with which to grab hold of her. I immediately reach for her waist, pulling her still closer.

                Nagging me at the back of my mind is the thought that she's got a boyfriend, that in order for her to be here and doing this with me right now, she's most likely in some sort of altered state of consciousness. Whatever it is that's got her so upset, could have driven her to drink. And so I should stop this, I think. Maybe if we stop now, that wall can go back up between us and we can pretend that this didn't happen. At least, we can pretend until such a time comes when this can happen under the proper circumstances, when she is not intoxicated and not tied down.

                Then she opens her mouth slightly, and her tongue grazes my lip. Just like that, my resolve is gone.

                I open my mouth immediately, and the taste of her sends a shiver through me. Her tongue clashes with mine, and there's an urgency to it that I don't really understand… because even though I've been anticipating this for as long as I can remember, I always assumed that when it happened, it would be more… timid, I suppose.

                But there is nothing timid about the way her left hand goes to knot in my hair, while the other slides down my chest, catching the buttons of my shirt on the way and pulling each of them free. Following in her lead, I finger at the hem of her shirt and tug it up. She smiles against my lips and pulls away, yanking the shirt off and tossing it behind her.

                With her top disposed of, my first instinct is to look down at her breasts. Apparently, Catherine notices, because she lets out a giggle. "My eyes are up here, David." The most like herself she's been since she showed up.

                I meet her gaze and grin sheepishly. "You've got fabulous breasts, Catherine."

                "Well there are better things we can do with our time than just sit here while you stare at them."

                "But wait, shouldn't we… shouldn't we maybe stop? And talk about this?" Even as the words come out of my mouth, I am staring at her chest, trying to figure out how long it would take to get her out of these remaining clothes and into my bedroom (not necessarily in so clean-cut an order). And it's taking everything in me not to go right ahead and put that plan into action.

                She bites her lip. Why does she have to keep biting her lip? "What is there to talk about? I'm here, and you're here, and we both want this. You do… want this, right?"

                "God yes," I exclaim.

                "Well then." Catherine smirks. "You want to know what it is that I want?"

                I swallow. "What?"

                She leans in, so very close, and whispers into my ear: "I want you to take me into your room, and I want to fuck you until you see stars."

                And what, really, can I say to that? I grab her hand and pull her off the couch, giggling and giving her another kiss as soon as she is standing in front of me. On the way to my bedroom, she tugs at my shirt, wrenching it off and dispensing of it as she did her own.

                Once in my room, Catherine takes no note of her surroundings. Instead, she kisses me, backing me up against my bed until I fall back onto it. She laughs and drops down next to me. "You're marvelous, David."

                I roll over so and balance on my arm so that I'm above her. I look her in the eyes, and I feel like my heart could burst. "You're perfect," I whisper. Not because I'm trying to one-up her, but because I believe it wholeheartedly.

                Catherine seems to be at a loss for words, but I didn't really expect a response. Instead, I go to kiss her neck. I nip and suck tentatively at the skin, trying to figure out what it is that sets her off, but she promptly exclaims, "Stop, I can't sit through Thanksgiving dinner with my family wondering who gave me a hickey."

                I grin and kiss my way up her neck, along her jawline. "I suppose it needn't be anywhere visible, hmm?"

                "Quite true."

                "Like… here." I press my lips lightly to the crevice in the middle of her clavicle. "Or here." I travel down the center of her torso, spacing these kisses every few inches. "Or here. Here… here…" She starts to giggle. When I reach her belly button, I pause and sit up, looking down at her. "I think it's high time that we remove that bra now," I say seriously. "It's very difficult to kiss those crucial parts of your anatomy when they're covered by that unnecessary fabric."

                She sits up to do as I asked, but does not lie back once her bra is removed. Instead, she straddles me, a smirk playing across her lips. That smirk, I think, needs to be wiped away. I kiss her, and suddenly her desperation is back. And although I want nothing more than to spend all night learning every inch of her, it doesn't seem that she's going to let me. So this time, I give in. Catherine has me out of my jeans and boxers—she even takes off my socks, because "I refuse to fuck a man while he's wearing socks"—within what feels like seconds. As she shimmies out of her own pants, she looks at me expectantly. "I don't know why you're sitting there gawking, you've got a condom to scrounge around for."

                I crawl over to my bedside table and am sincerely worried for a moment because I can't remember whether I have any or not.

                But I do, and I rejoice.

                She snatches the packet out of my hand, but does not open it. "Lie down," she instructs me. I do. From that vantage point, I watch her eyes, watch as they travel the length of my body, and I see her smile. "Goodness, David, was that really enough to make you so hard?"

                "It's been a while," I say weakly. Because of you, I want to add. Because I haven't been able to so much as look at and consider the merits of another woman since I met you.

                I don't add that, but her smile widens slightly anyway. "I'm not making fun, I'm flattered."

                Minutes ago, taking all night to finally get around to sex seemed like the best idea in the world. I'm beginning to question this idea. I question it further when she tears the foil of the wrapper and slowly, with agonizing care, she rolls it down the full length of my cock with her thumbs. Her forefingers trail along behind, applying just enough pressure that I can feel it, just enough that I have to grit my teeth.

                "Sit up now." And when I do, she settles down in my lap, wraps her legs around my waist and kisses me.

                I'm so consumed by the kiss that I hardly notice that she's centering herself over me; I hardly notice, at least, until I am suddenly inside her. I moan into her mouth in reaction to the sudden sensation.

                Catherine pauses, face only inches away from my own, and we take a moment to breathe, to familiarize ourselves with the feel of each other.

                Our movements are awkward and disjointed at first, but we find a comfortable rhythm soon enough. Her hands scratch down my back, and I bite and suck my way across her chest, just as I promised I would.

                I come sooner than I'd like to admit, shouting her name, until she kisses the word away from my lips.

                She lies down as I tie off the condom and toss it in the trash. "I'm sorry."

                "For what?" I look back at her and frown.

                "For not climaxing."

                I turn to face her full-on, bewildered. "Are you serious? You shouldn't feel the need to apologize for that."

                "No?"

                "Of course not. Just means I'll have to try a little harder, doesn't it?" I peck her lightly on the lips and again, I start to leave a trail of kisses on my way down her torso. This time, I do not stop at her belly button.

                "David, you don't have to—"

                "I want to."

                Catherine blushes.

                "Tell me if I'm doing something good, okay? Or something bad, for that matter."

                Whatever it is that I do, she seems to quite enjoy it. Her hands knot into my hair, and she begins to let out little gasps and moans that escalate in volume and become increasingly frequent. As my tongue brushes against her clit, she gives my hair a sharp tug, which coincides with another moan. And finally, she does climax with a breathless scream.

                With her grip on my hair, she pulls me up until I am level with her, and she kisses me again—lazily, now, no lingering feelings of urgency present.

                "God, you really are marvelous."

                "And you really are perfect." If anything, I'm now more convinced of her perfection after hearing the noises that she made as I got her off.

                "You know, when I said that I wanted to make you see stars, I didn't really mean literally."

                It takes me a few moments to understand what she means, and then I realize that she's staring up at my ceiling, up at the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered over us. And I laugh. I glance over at her and she is staring up at those stars. She's not frowning, but she certainly isn't smiling, either. I sigh. "You're, um… you're welcome to stay. If you like. Maybe we could have another go at it."

                Catherine hesitates—and I wait with bated breath—but finally she nods. "Yeah, okay, let's do that."

                That night, I fall asleep with Catherine in my arms and I am happier than I've been in the longest time. 


	9. Chapter 8: Catherine

                When I wake up, the first thing I see is stars.

                For a second, I can't figure out why there are stars on my ceiling. I don't remember ever putting stars on my ceiling.

                Then I remember that those aren't my stars, that it isn't my ceiling, and I have to stifle a gasp. I turn my head slightly, and see David's sleeping form beside me. He's lying on his side, facing me, and one of his arms is stretched out across the bed. If he were lying only a few inches closer, his hand would be resting on my stomach.

                I look down at myself and blush. My bare stomach. Although the blanket is covering us both from the waist up, I know that we both drifted off still completely naked. The thought makes me blush deeper. David isn't wearing anything under that blanket.

                I run through the events of last night, and cringe at the thought of how I behaved. I was a woman possessed.

                How did he not realize that something was so, very wrong?

                But he did realize. He tried to get me to talk to him, and I refused because I was so determined to get on with it and just sleep with him.

                The realization dawns on me that I can't possibly stay. A part of me wants nothing more than to curl up against David and fall back to sleep, but there is no way that I can do that. I can't face him when he wakes up. I just can't do that.

                I take a deep breath and slowly push the covers away. My underwear and jeans are pooled down on the side of the bed, and I lean down to pick them up. A dog's face meets me, and I swear under my breath. Although Rory is sleeping, I assume that, like any other dog, the faintest hint of noise might set him off. I grab my clothes and slowly lift them up. Rory doesn't stir. I slip into my panties, and then my pants, and then I lie there for a moment and try to think. Where did I throw my bra?

                I'm fairly certain it's on his side of the bed. That's delightful.

                I lower my feet to the floor and gently set them down. Rory twitches in his sleep. I hold my breath and stand up. David lets out a little grunt and I giggle because it's so cute. Immediately, I regret it because Rory twitches again.

                I tip-toe around to his side, and sure enough, my bra is there, lying halfway under the bed. I pick it up and put it on.

                And then my cell phone rings.

                I freeze, and grit my teeth as Rory starts barking. Maybe it won't wake him up. Maybe David will remain blissfully unconscious.

                He doesn't. Instead, he sits up, rubs his eyes, and looks at me. Immediately, he grins. "Morning Catherine."And then he looks down at me, almost completely dressed and standing a few feet from the door. "You're not… going somewhere, are you? Why don't you stay? We could go out to breakfast."

                I almost say yes. But I can't. I bite my lip and shake my head. "I really shouldn't. I need to, um, go home, pack, get cleaned up—"

                "Were you going to leave without even telling me?"

                Yes. "I… no, David, that's…" I trail off.

                "Fucking hell." He grimaces and runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Why are you _here_ , Catherine? You never did give me a straight answer last night. Why did I hold you out in the hall for five minutes while you cried your fucking eyes out?"

                I stare down at my feet, and become momentarily intrigued by a patchwork rug that David's got spread out across his floor. Somehow that seems like the sort of thing that he would feel inclined to use to decorate.

                But he pulls me away from that soon enough. "You kept saying that you've wanted this since we met. Was that a lie? Did you just do this to fuck with me? In, y'know, both senses of the word."

                "No, of course not. It's just…" It's just hard to take this seriously when he off-handedly makes a joke about a double-entendre. "Last night, I called Twig. I wanted to make plans with him, figure out when we could get together while I was back at home."

                "And?"

                "And a woman picked up. She said that he was _indisposed_ but that she could relay a message to him. So I hung up. And I… I was upset. I was out of sorts. I wasn't thinking straight." I'm biting on my lip so hard that it's a wonder that I'm not breaking skin. I look at him hesitantly, hoping for some acknowledgment of understanding.

                Except now he won't even look at me. "You're right, Catherine. Maybe you should just go." He lies back down and turns over so that his back is to me.

                I hesitate in the doorway, pausing to look back at him. This is the first time that I've actually gotten a look at his room—last night, it wasn't exactly the first thing on my mind. It's sparsely decorated, with only a few posters scattering the walls. There's what looks to be a family portrait on his bedside table. Aside from that, there's just a dresser, though I don't know why because it seems that his entire wardrobe is scattered across the floor.

                And then I catch sight of something that makes me catch my breath. "I can't believe you actually bought that shirt," I say. Because there's no mistaking the ghastly brown and green pattern of the shirt that he pulled off the rack on the day that I met him.

                He doesn't look at me, but he does respond. "Matt bought it. I stole it from him."

                "Oh." I shove my hands in my pockets. "I'll, um, I'll call you when I get back in from Boston. We can talk about this."

                I watch him for a second longer, wondering if maybe he'll turn to look at me. But he doesn't. So I retreat into the living room. My shirt is in the middle of the floor, and I pull it on. I take forever to tie my shoes, to put my coat on. Because there's a part of me that wants him to come out and talk to me, maybe tell me that he understands.

                But David doesn't come out and talk to me, doesn't tell me that he understands, so I slip out the door.

                On the El home, I find that I'm near tears once again. I've fucked up, I think. We had a fragile balance, but it was working. It could have kept working. Now, he might not want it to work anymore.

                It occurs to me that I don't know what will happen when Karen and I return to Boston. I might see Twig, and I might find out that it was all a misunderstanding, that I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Or I might find out that I jumped to the _right_ conclusion. And I sincerely don't know how I will react to either eventuality.

                I try to push the thoughts away. When I get home, the first thing I do is jump into the shower. But that doesn't help matters, because every time I look down at myself, I see the marks that David left on my skin. And I can't help but smile, just a little bit, at the memory of his tender words—I've been paid almost every compliment in the book, by men who probably figured that flattery would be the best way to get into bed with me. But he's the only one who's ever called me perfect, all the while looking at me with the deepest sincerity in his eyes.

                The idea that he believes it, though… that hurts, in a way. Because I'm not perfect, not in the slightest, not if I could actually do what it is that I've just done.

                Karen swings by in a taxi to pick me up. As soon as I've sat down beside her, she says, "Hey, what have you been up to?"

                "Nothing." I do my best to remain casual. "Why do you ask?"

                She gives me an odd look. "I dunno, because that's a commonly accepted way to initiate conversation with someone? Although now that you mention it, I called your house yesterday evening and you didn't pick up. And then this morning I called your cell, but you didn't answer then either. Is something going on?"

                I consider possible excuses. "No, nothing's going on, I was just exhausted yesterday so I went to bed really early. And you must have called while I was in the shower this morning." Or, y'know, you might have called when I was trying to escape from David's apartment and you might have woken him up and ruined everything. Either possibility seems equally plausible.

                "Oh, okay." She doesn't pursue the line of questioning any further—why should she?—and instead launches into some story about something stupid that one of her co-workers did today, and proceeds to talk for most of the drive out to O'Hare. And through security, and while we're getting dinner before the flight. In fact, it's not until we've settled into our seats on the plane that she asks, "Are you sure nothing's going on? You've been so quiet."

                "Everything's fine! I've just been listening to you."

                "I know, that's my point. You've actually been listening to me. You never listen to my stories."

                "A fact about which you've expressed dissatisfaction in the past, so I'm trying to be better about it now. I would have thought you'd appreciate it."

                She squints at me. "I'd appreciate it if I didn't think something else was up."

                "Nothing else is up!"

                We stare each other down, and I think Karen is hoping that something about her dramatically cocked brows will coerce me into revealing my deep, dark secret. Unfortunately for her, over the years I have become essentially immune to the effect of her raised eyebrows, and I maintain my composure until she finally gives up. "You can play innocent all you want, but something's going on. I'll pry it out of you eventually."

                "I'd believe you if there were anything to pry out."

                Karen clearly wants nothing more than to protest, but luckily for me, the flight attendants choose this moment to begin providing us with safety instructions, so she has to shut up. And once we're up in the air, I am able to turn on my music and tune her out completely.

                It takes about two hours to fly from Chicago to Boston. That is, at least, on a good day. As it is, this is not the best of days. We hit some turbulence, and although I handle it alright, Karen has never particularly liked flying. She’s convinced that every trip is going to end with a deadly crash. And again, that’s on a good day. As we weather the storm—literally, ha—she clings tightly to my arm and refuses to let go until it’s once again smooth sailing (if you’ll pardon my mixing of transportation vehicle idioms). It’s a relief to be able to pull out of her grasp.

                Because of the turbulence, we don’t get through baggage claim until about 11:30. Our dad, who’s waiting for us outside, makes sure to express his dissatisfaction.

                “I hope you girls appreciate the fact that I’m here this late. Do you know how far past my bedtime it is? I should’ve been sawing logs an hour ago, but here I’ve been, waiting for you. God, you’re lucky I love you so much.”

                No amount of gratitude is enough to get him to relent. Karen finally throws caution to the wind and asks, "Why didn't you send Mom if you knew that you'd be so exhausted?" This gives him pause, but then he proceeds to explain that he was doing it in her best interest, because he knew that she deserved to get sleep.

                "God, Karen, now you've turned him into a martyr," I grumble.

                She groans. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

                "Do you need to use language like that in front of me?"

                "I'm 25, Dad!"

                "What does age have to do with it?"

                "Well, clearly if I'm old enough to drink alcohol and have sex, then I'm old enough—"

                " _No_. I am forever convinced that you girls only ever drink Gatorade and cuddle."

                I smirk and add, so helpfully, "Well Dad, at least I don't drink alcohol." From the back seat, Karen hits me.

                "That's right, at least I managed to bring one of you up nice and sensible."

                Karen snorts. "You think that she's sensible? She can't see what's right under her fucking nose."

                "What did I just say about cursing? There are countless words in the English language, and the fact that you feel the need to express yourself with a curse word indicates bad breeding."

                "Unless I use it in choice situations to emphasize my meaning, which should please you because you raised us to be conscious of our diction."

                Over the course of the past few years, I have heard this disagreement countless times between Dad and Karen. At this point, I could probably write up a script, because the gist of their points never change much. But I don't have the patience for this. I'm exhausted from the trip, and I want nothing more than to get to sleep.

                This might also be partially due to the fact that when I'm sleeping, I can't be struck by nagging thoughts about what a horrible person I am.

                In any case, though, I don't want to hear them bickering. So I shout, "Could we please just have fucking silence for the rest of the drive?"

                "Not you too…" he mumbles. But I glare at him, and he doesn't pursue the matter. What actually takes about five minutes seems to take an eternity. Finally, though, we reach home. Dad insists on carrying our bags inside and upstairs, and he hovers in between our bedrooms for what, again, feels like an eternity before we can convince him that we're settled in and want nothing more than to sleep.

                As soon as he's retreated into his room, I regret how quickly and easily we dismissed him. Karen is in her room, and likely already asleep. But long after I have settled into bed, I am staring up at my ceiling. When I was young, I was afraid of the dark, and my parents thought it might be easier to wean me off of my night light if they affixed glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling. Which I quite liked, once upon a time. Now, at the sight of them, I'm simply wracked with guilt.

                Despite how guilty I feel, I still miss him. I'd still like to call him up, or text him, because I know he's probably still awake. Maybe he's staring at his own fucking star-covered ceiling. I could call him and we should chat and everything could be magically set right.

                I know, though, that there's no way he'd want to talk to me. And I don't particularly fancy the idea of being sent to voicemail.

                If I give him enough time, he'll come around. He just has to.


	10. Chapter 9: David

                On Friday night, I get a call from Matt. When my phone rings, for just a moment I hope that it's Catherine. That is, until I remember that I'm angry with her and that if it is Catherine, I should ignore the call because I want her to make note of my dissatisfaction with this situation. This thought makes me even more hopeful that it's Catherine.

                But it's not, and when I answer the phone, I can't help it if I sound sullen. "Hey Matt, what's up?"

                "Not much… I was just, y'know, wondering how you were doing, if anything was going on…"

                I hesitate. I can't tell whether I should be pleased about his curiosity, or suspicious about what could be feigned concern. "Um, no, nothing's really going on. I'm just here at home alone, marathoning _Doctor Who_. Like I told you I was planning on doing. Why do you ask?"

                "Oh, no reason. I was just… curious."

                "Matt."

                "Yes, David?"

                "Why did you call me?"

                "Do I need a reason to call one of my best friends when he's home alone for Thanksgiving?"

                "Under any other circumstances, I'd say no, but I can't help but notice that you almost never call me. So surely you've got a reason for this."

                He sighs, and his tone becomes more serious. "Are you sure you want to know?"

                "I… yes?" I can't imagine what he might be preparing to say.

                Unless… what if Catherine told Karen about what happened between us? And what if Karen told Matt? By now, our entire network of acquaintances could know. Matt and Arthur are probably furious that they didn't hear it directly from me as soon as it happened. Oh God. I had been full of hope that this situation might right itself once she comes home, so that I can tell them the good news—that Catherine and I have gotten together—without having to explain the gory details—that it came about because she found out for sure that Twig has been cheating on her.

                I wrack my brains for a way to explain this away.

                "Well, I was talking to Karen just now." Yes. Here it comes. "And she was telling me the weirdest thing."

                Keep it cool, David. "You don't say. What was it?"

                "Apparently, in the whole span of time since they left Chicago, Catherine hasn't said a single word about you. Which is, apparently, some sort of record. So I was just wondering… if you guys maybe had a fight or something? In which case I figured that you would be pretty upset. So… um, yeah. That's why I called."

                I am temporarily rendered speechless. Catherine didn't tell her sister. Is it because, like me, she's hoping that we'll get things sorted out? Or is because she wants to forget that it happened?

                Which makes me wonder whether I should tell him.

                "No. We're fine. Haven't talked for a few days, but there's no problem as far as I know."

                "Oh. If it's been a few days, then you probably don't know about the whole mess with Twig."

                "What… what whole mess with Twig?"

                He coughs uncomfortably. "Apparently she called him on Tuesday night and a woman answered the phone? So she was convinced that he cheated on him."

                She _was_ convinced? "Oh no. That… that doesn't sound good. That must have killed her."

                "Yeah, but apparently she met up with him today and found out that it was actually his mother. So it all worked out."

                I stare blankly at the wall across from me. "Yeah, I guess it did." No fucking wonder she didn't tell her sister.

                "Right. Sure." Matt pauses. "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have told you about that. I just thought you might want to know."

                "Why on earth shouldn't you tell me? She's my friend, and I'm glad to hear that she's happy."

                "You sure?"

                "Yeah, yeah, of course. But um, I'm gonna go now, if that's okay. I was about to hop into the shower when you called."

                "Okay, you go on. Um… Feel free to call me if you want, though. If you decide that you're not really very glad about it after all."

                I thank him, and hang up. It's all I can do not to throw my phone all the way across the fucking room. Catherine was upset, so she came to me. And she slept with me. There's no fucking way that was meaningless. But I know, I just know, that she's going to want us to forget that it ever happened. Because why does she need me if she's got Twig?

                Twig, who probably _has_ been sleeping around and just pulled the fucking excuse about his mother out of his ass.

                Twig, who doesn't even talk to her more than once a week.

                Twig, who from the look of it can't even get her off properly because she seemed surprised when I did.

                And somehow, despite it all, I am glad that she's happy. Because I couldn't care less how miserable I am, as long as I know that she's happy.


	11. Chapter 10: Catherine

                Before leaving David's apartment, I told him that I would call when I got back into Chicago. When I actually do return, however, I begin to formulate countless ideas for why I can't, why it would be an awful idea.

                I don't call him the evening we fly in because I figure that he might already be in bed, and I wouldn't want to disturb him. The next morning, he's probably on his way to work and wouldn't get a signal in the subway. I don't call during my lunch break because one would hardly want to have such a serious conversation during one's lunch break.

                That evening, the only reason I can give myself is that if I call him, he might not pick up.

                Which is the worst thought of all. And might, I admit, be the main motivating factor behind all of those reasons. Just a little bit.

                I'm still equally worried about it the next day. And again, I don't call him.

                Finally, on Wednesday, I give in. I tell myself that it doesn't matter how much space I try to give him—there will always be a chance that he might pick up. If I'm not careful, then soon he'll realize that he deserves better than me in his life anyway, and then even though he might not be upset, he still won't pick up, this time out of sheer indifference.

                So after dinner, I brace myself. And I call him, my heart caught in my throat.

                He picks up, and says, "Hi, Catherine." And I have to try very hard not to let out a shout because I  _wouldn't fucking blame him_  if he didn't want to pick up the phone. And he did it anyway, no matter how much I deserve the silent treatment.

                "David. Hi. I've… um, I've missed you." I cringe. Perhaps not the best way to start this conversation.

                "I've missed you too," he murmurs. It seems like he's trying to be guarded. It's not working very well. I hear, rather poorly masked—what is it? desperation? disappointment? I don't know why, because at this point he doesn't know what I'm going to say.

                Hell, I still don't know.

                I hesitate. I’ve spent so much of my time worrying about whether he’ll accept my call, that I haven’t given much thought to what I should say to him once he answers.

                But David gets to it first. “I talked to Matt the other day.”

                “Oh?” What does Matt have to do with anything? Has David already decided to pretend that nothing happened? I’m not okay with that. It’s not fair of him to make a decision like that all by himself. I try to remain calm, and wait for him to continue.

                “Yeah. He had been talking to Karen. He wanted to know if you and I had gotten into a fight.”

                “Oh.” On the plane ride home, she had brought that up to me, too. I told her no, of course. I told her that everything was fine. “What did you say?”

                “I told him that we were all good. I didn’t… I didn’t tell him that you came over. I wasn’t sure whether you wanted us to keep that whole evening to ourselves. Especially—”

                “Especially, what?” Does he know something I don’t know?

                He clears his throat. “Especially since he says that you found out that Twig’s mother was the woman who picked up his phone.”

                Well, that would certainly explain the disappointed tone. “Oh, you… you heard about that, did you?”

                “Yeah. So it all worked out well for you in the end, I suppose, didn’t it?”

                Hiding behind that is another question: would you like me to pretend that what happened between us, never happened? And I hesitate, because even though I’m happy with Twig, happy that he was not fucking around behind my back, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want us to pretend. But I can think of no alternative. Because to acknowledge that it happened would change… everything. “It did, yeah.”

                “I’m glad to hear it. Um, on another note, tomorrow night some of us are going out, to celebrate Arthur’s birthday. You’re welcome to come, if you want. I mean, it’ll be at a bar, but y’know, there’s other stuff to do at a bar besides drink. And there’ll be some cool people there. Obviously, since I’ll be there, but there will be other cool people there too.”

                I laugh slightly, and hopefully it doesn’t sound as uncomfortable as I think it does. “Yeah, Karen mentioned that to me since Matt invited her. I’m working tomorrow, but once I get off I might come by.”

                “Okay. That… that sounds good. Cool.”

                “Cool.”

                Now we both laugh awkwardly. I am reminded of the first time we met, except even then, it felt more comfortable than this feels.

                “Okay, unless there’s anything else…”

                I shake my head and promptly realize that he can’t see me. “No, not really. I just wanted to, y’know, make sure we were all good.”

                “Yeah, we're good.”

                “Do you promise?”

                “Pinky promise.”

                I chuckle. “How can you pinky promise if you're not here in front of me?”

                “S'pose you'll just have to trust me. I'll see you tomorrow, Catherine.”

                “Oh? What makes you so sure?”

                “I'm psychic.”

                For some strange reason, I don't believe him. But I smile. “Tomorrow, then. Since if you see it, then clearly it's bound to happen.”

                “Goodnight Catherine.”

                “'Night, David.”

                I set my phone aside and take a deep breath. I'm relieved by how well that conversation went, but at the same time, I'm inexplicably on edge. No matter how much he might have insisted that he was okay with the state of our friendship, David still seemed reluctant to do so. And that reluctance scares me.

                But he told me to come out with them, and that means that he at least wants to try, that he wants to be okay with it.

                God, I don't deserve him. Not in any capacity.

                The following day, I go into work to see that Matt is the one who will be working the shift with me. I suck in a breath at the sight of him, because he's been gossiping about me with my sister and I just don't know how I feel about that. When he sees me, though, he greets me with a smile, and I smile back.

                “Sorry I'm a late.” I hurry to join him behind the counter. “You'd think that these train operators would be able to handle the after-effects of a snowstorm by now, and yet...”

                “Now, that's just an absurd supposition. But don't worry about it. Clearly we're in a bit of a lull at the moment.” He gestures around to the practically empty shop. “Freema was sorry to miss you, though. Stuck around for a bit because she wanted to talk to you about something, but she had to be off so she said it could wait until tonight.”

                “Tonight?”

                Matt frowns, and I get the impression that I've asked a very stupid question. “David said that you were coming out with us for Arthur's birthday. I was going to offer you a ride.”

                “Oh!” In all honesty, I was still undecided about whether I wanted to be there, regardless of what I told David. But I make a split-second decision and, before I can regret it, I say, “Yeah, of course. I just didn't realize that Freema would be there.”

                “Yeah, she will. She and Arthur have been friends since high school, so I don't think there's anything in the world that could stop her from showing up. And is that a yes to the ride?”

                “Sure, a ride would be great, I'd really appreciate it.”

                As soon as I slide into Matt's passenger seat that evening, I begin to question the decision to accept his offer. We're embarking upon a journey of questionable length to reach a bar in God knows which part of the city, during rush hour. I don't know if I'm up for so much awkward silence.

                But Matt seems to have other plans.

                “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

                I pause, running through a mental list of everything he could be asking me. “Go ahead.”

                “What's your boyfriend like?” At the sight of my expression, he quickly adds, “I'm not asking for David, or anything. I'm not going to go and immediately report to him what you say. I'm just... I'm curious, is all. Karen won't say much because at the very mention of his name, she gets outraged and begins ranting about how you 'deserve better than that scumbag'. So I would really... I'd be interested to know about him.”

                “Why do you ask?” He remains tight-lipped and stares straight at the road. “Matt, why do you want to know about him?”

                “It's just...” Matt sighs. “Don't tell people I said this, but like... Arthur complains to me all the time, Karen too, about you and David. About how much he adores you, but you don't seem to notice. Or if you notice, they figure you don't care. And Karen thinks that Twig is a prick and that you should have dumped him the moment you met David and realized that there was something better out there. They're both pretty irritated by how much you're leading him on, because it's starting to look more and more like you won't ever acknowledge the fact that you and David are so perfect together.” He pauses. “That's all paraphrasing them, mind you.”

                “You discuss this often, do you?”

                “Actually, yeah, I can't remember the last time it didn't came up. Which makes me uncomfortable because I never particularly liked being invested in romantic relationships. But that's not my point.”

                “Then get to it,” I snap. I can't believe that he's actually telling me all of this.

                “I figure that you must see something in Twig. And given that I'm already invested in this mess, I thought I might as well ask what that something is.”

                Oh. I actually... I quite appreciate that. “Okay. Do you mind if I take a bit to figure out how to articulate it properly?”

                He instructs me to, “Go ahead, take as long as you need.”

                So I consider it. As time slips by, I notice him glancing over at me, but I disregard his evident impatience. Such a sincere question merits a sincere response.

                “Twig saved me,” I say at last.

                “He what?”

                “He  _saved_  me.”

                “From what?”

                “From myself.”

                Matt no doubt wants to pursue the matter further, but seems to catch on to how much of a bad idea that would be. “Okay,” he says. And we discuss the matter no more. Silence falls in the car, but it doesn't feel as awkward as I expected.

                Once we reach the bar in question, we spend ten minutes circling the surrounding blocks in search of parking. It no doubt would have taken longer if I hadn't finally talked him into claiming a spot that opened up on the main street.

                “I don't want to pay two dollars an hour to park in my own city! It's a fucking shakedown, I tell you, and I don't want to support it.”

                “Unfortunately for you, everyone else feels that way too. We're not going to find a spot on a side street. Please just take this one.” Thankfully, he does, and we are able to stop circling like madmen. I'm grateful, too, because it means that we're fifty feet away from the bar, as opposed to having to trek across two blocks in the snow.

                We rush inside and linger in the doorway, shaking off the snow. Matt catches sight of everyone first, and he points them out. “There they are. Shall we?”

                I follow behind him, trying my best to maintain a calm demeanor. The thought of seeing David again, now, is terrifying. I shouldn't have agreed to do this. This was an awful idea. I don't want to be here. Maybe I could turn around and leave before they notice that I was here in the first place.

                As if he can read my mind, Matt links arms with me, and does not release me until we've reached the corner where they're all congregated around a few tables.

                “Sorry we're late, Arthur, but I don't know if you could have picked a place farther away from the Daily Grind to drive to. During rush hour. A much-frequented location with, apparently, no parking.”

                “You know I only like the best of the best. But why the hell did you drive?”

                “What do you mean? David will be designated driver if I ask nicely.”

                Arthur shakes his head. “He hasn't shown up yet. Didn't ride the train out with me, said he had to run by home and that he wasn't sure if he was in the mood for a party.” He glances at me for the most miniscule of moments, but it's enough to make me feel suddenly self-conscious.

                “You're joking. Shit, Arthur.” Matt turns to me. “Catherine, you don't drink, do you?”

                I shake my head. “No, I don't, but I don't drive, either, I'm sorry.”

                “Well fuck.” He drops into an empty chair and slouches down, arms crossed over his chest. “Don't suppose anyone here hasn't had a few yet?”

                “Unlikely.”

                While Matt questions those present in search of someone who can drive his car for him, I scan the crowd for a familiar face. I spot Freema first, so I make a beeline in her direction and squeeze into the booth beside her. “Hey! It's been a while, hasn't it?”

                “It has! You're looking well.”

                “I am, yeah. Thanksgiving was very refreshing. I really miss Boston, sometimes, and this was the first chance I've had to go back. Mind you, there wasn't snow there, so coming back to this mess hasn't exactly been pleasant.”

                She chuckles. “I'm glad to hear it. That you got to go back home, not that the weather here sucks. Although, just to clarify, I am perfectly aware that the weather here sucks. I'd also like to point out that you don't really have any reason to be complaining about Chicago weather, because Boston's kind of on the same level.”

                “Maybe in general! But they haven't gotten any snow yet. I didn't have to break out my winter coat the whole trip. Here, I get off the plane and immediately I have to pull it out of my suitcase because it's fucking freezing. It's an outrage, that is.”

                “A sheer outrage.” Freema laughs some more and holds up her glass, toasting to me.

                “So I hear you were looking for me.”

                “Mmm!” She swallows a big gulp of whatever it is that she's drinking. “That I was. I hung around for about twenty minutes after my shift ended, but I finally gave up because I had an appointment to get to.”

                I wait for her to continue, but she just takes another drink, so I clear my throat and press her further. “Okay, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

                “Boys.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “Well, one boy in particular, at least; your boy.”

                “You mean Twig?”

                “No, don't be ridiculous. David. I mean David.”

                I flush. “David isn't 'my boy', Freema. He's not my anything. Well I mean, he's my friend, of course. But he's not 'my boy'.”

                “Of course he is. But that's not important right now. What's  _important_  is that he came into the shop on Tuesday looking for you, in the hopes that you might be working. So I thought I'd just let you know, in case you haven't spoken with him since then.”

                What a letdown. I was hoping that she might have some big, exciting story for me, and instead she's giving me yesterday's news. Not that I don't appreciate her telling me, of course. But since I've already spoken with David, it seems a bit redundant to let me know that he was seeking me out two days ago. I already know why: because I promised that I'd call him when I got home, and David would most certainly want to hold me to that. Especially, I realize, because he already knew what I was going to say, so he probably wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

                “David McDonald, you're my hero!”

                I spin around to look, and see that Matt has jumped out of his chair and tugged a very confused David into a very tight grip of a hug. He looks at Arthur and mouths, “What did I do?”

                “Since you decided to come, it means he doesn't have to drive home,” Arthur says with a smirk.

                “And I love you for it so much!”

                “Glad to be of service.” David wrenches himself out of Matt's arms, who then runs directly to the bar to order a drink. “That's ridiculous, that is. No one should be that happy about finding a designated driver. Some day I'm just going to tell him that I want to get hammered, that he has to be the driver for once.”

                From the bar, Matt shouts, “You do, and instead of giving you a ride in my car, I'll run you over with it.”

                I laugh, and at the sound, David turns to look my way. He smiles slightly, and I smile back and wave. But he doesn't head over to me and Freema. Instead, he claims Matt's seat and starts talking to Arthur.

                “Are you two fighting?” Freema asks.

                I clench my jaw and pull my gaze away from David. “No, we're not fighting. We had a little misunderstanding, but it's cleared up now.”

                She looks skeptical—I don't blame her.

                People don't start filtering away until the wee hours of the morning, and finally, David stands up and announces, “Matt and I are heading out. There's room for three people in the back if you want a ride.”

                Karen and Arthur promptly claim two of the seats. When no one readily jumps for the last spot, I clear my throat and say, “I'd like a ride, please.”

                I lead the way because Matt is too inebriated to remember where he parked. Arthur walks with me, and occasionally glances back at Matt and Karen. David meanders along behind them, taking up the rear.

                “Please don't stick me in the back with them,” Arthur mutters, nodding back to the giggly couple.

                “I don't particularly want to be stuck with them either.”

                “She's your sister.”

                “He's your friend.”

                Arthur sighs and scratches his head. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

                “Fair enough.”

                He throws rock, I throw paper. I laugh. “Shotgun is mine.”

                “Best two of three!”

                I shrug. My rock beats his scissors.

                We reach the car. Matt, Karen and David get in, but Arthur lingers in front of the door. “Three out of five?”

                “Just get in the car, Arthur.”

                “Fine, but I won't be happy about it.”

                I grin.

                As soon as I'm sitting next to David, though, I start to wonder whether maybe sitting back with my sister and Matt might have been preferable. He looks at me and smiles again, but says nothing.

                From the back seat, Arthur exclaims, “For fuck's sake, I will sit between you.”

                David and I both snicker, at which point we glance at each other and smile awkwardly again.

                “Oh, fuck off. I'm not happy with you two either, y'know. Since you refuse to get a fucking room and fuck already. Fuck, is that redundant?”

                I glance at David. “He sure says 'fuck' a lot when he's drunk.” I choose to ignore the actual essence of Arthur's remark.

                “Yeah, he does.”

                He doesn't say anything else or seem to be remotely interested in pursuing a deeper conversation. I sigh, exasperated, and mutter, “Why did you invite me if you had no intention of speaking with me the entire night?”

                “Do we really need to discuss this now?”

                “Oh, please do, feel free to pretend I'm not even here.”

                David scowls at the rear view mirror. “You keep quiet. This isn't any of your concern.”

                “Fuck that, you've long since made it all of our concern. But I'll tune it out if you like, just sit here and hum loudly to myself.”

                “You're too kind,” David says dryly.

                Still, he says nothing.

                “Please, David,” I plead. “Just try to help me understand.”

                “Why? You seem perfectly satisfied to let me fumble around in the dark, trying to figure out what's going on in that head of yours.”

                “Oooh, true that!”

                “Fuck off, Arthur,” David and I say simultaneously.

                “What, now? Here in the car, in front of all of you?”

                David slams on the brakes, and we're lucky that there are no other cars around because this could have easily turned into a mess very quickly. He spins around to face Arthur and says, “If another word comes out of that smart ass mouth of yours, I'm making you walk home.”

                I glance back and see that Arthur looks terrified. I don't blame him. If I had that rage directed at me, I'd be terrified too.

                Arthur simply nods mutely, and David turns back to face the road. “Good.”

                More silence. Finally, we hit a red light and David glances over at me. “I'm sorry for ignoring you, Catherine. It's just... I was kind of hoping...” He hesitates. I grimace and nod. I hate myself for what I did. I fucking hate myself. The light turns green, and we continue on our way. “Just give me some time, alright?”

                “Of course,” I whisper. Because the fact that he's speaking to me at all is a fucking marvel, so I'm not going to complain.


	12. Chapter 11: David

                The following Saturday, I wake up and I am freezing. Not, mind you, the type of freezing like, “Oh, somehow the window flew open in the middle of the night and it's a wonder it's not snowing on me!” freezing. Not, “I kicked all my blankets off in the middle of the night,” freezing. No. The window is tightly shut and the blankets are on. The stars are twinkling above my head and there's every indication that it's going to be a great day.

                Except that it's _fucking cold_.

                I pull my blankets tightly around me and stumble out of bed, shuffling out into the hall. I lean against the wall and bang on Arthur's door. “Wake up, Arthur! I think there's something wrong with the heat!”

                He opens it within seconds. He's wearing his winter coat, jeans, and wool socks; I look him up and down and suddenly feel under-dressed. “I noticed, trust me. I've already called, apparently it's out for the whole building. We're going to have to stay elsewhere for two or three nights while they fix it.”

                “Alright, I need to call Matt and talk him into letting me—”

                “That's, um, not going to happen.”

                I frown. “Why not? We get along, us two. He would let me sleep on his couch for a few nights.”

                “He would if I hadn't already claimed the couch.”

                “You didn't!” I exclaim. “You've got tons of friends with enough space to let you stay and you pick him?”

                Arthur looks at me like I'm crazy. “David, we both have the same friends. On more than one occasion, we've discussed that it's a problem, how literally all of our friends are mutual friends.”

                “Yeah, but I don't like most of them that much. I mean, I don't know most of them that well. That's what I meant. That's definitely what I meant.”

                “I'll ignore that and not send out a mass text telling everyone that you secretly despise them.”

                “Not everyone,” I mutter. “Just some of them...”

                He waves this off. “Not important. In any case, surely there's someone you'd feel comfortable enough to impose on for a few days.”

                “I really think you underestimate how much I don't ever want to stay with most of our friends ever. Perhaps I should just stay in a hotel.”

                “That's so stupid. Why pay hundreds of dollars to stay somewhere when you can just crash in someone's living room?”

                I shrug, and wander back in the direction of my bedroom in order to find some actual clothes—since walking outside swathed in blankets might cause people to stare. “I could also just live on the streets. Would be preferable to having to put up with some of those people.”

                “David, there must be someone!”

                I use my foot to dig through a pile of my jeans, until I find a pair that seem to be relatively clean, at which point I kick them up onto my bed. I go through the same process with my shirts. “No one comes to mind.”

                “I think you're ignoring the obvious.”

                I hope to God that he's not going to say what I think he's going to say. “To whom are you referring?”

                “I really don't think I need to say.”

                “And I really don't know, so I ask again: to whom are you referring.”

                Even with the wall between us, I hear him groan in exasperation. “Just fucking call her and get it over with, David. Maybe with you two playing domestic, she'll figure out how perfect you are together and then she'll end that mess of a relationship and you two can live happily ever after.”

                “It's more complicated than that.” I don't know precisely _how_ it's complicated, because Arthur's proposition sounds entirely logical to me. But it's complicated. For some reason. Apparently.

                “Call her. Or I will.”

                “You wouldn't.” I don't think he would, at least. I hope he wouldn't. Just in case, though, I shout, “I'm texting her now.”

 

> Woke up this morning to find that heat's gone in my building. Hate to impose, but is there any chance I can crash at yours for a few?

 

                The rapidity with which she responds is honestly startling.

 

> Of course. I've got a gig tonight, but come over any time before six and it shouldn't be a problem. And no, you can't watch.

 

                I peek my head into Arthur's room. He's in the process of packing a bag of stuff to bring with him to Matt's. “I texted her, and she said yes. Are you happy now?”

                “Very much so, yeah. Step one of my plan is now complete. Now just seduce her with the domesticity like we planned and it will all work out great.”

                It bothers me, how quick he is to forgive and forget. It's as though he doesn't even remember how much Catherine hurt me. Not that he really understands why I felt hurt to such an extent, but he understands that I _was_ hurt, and that's the important part.

                Although I really don't have any other friends at whose apartments I'd feel comfortable staying, I worry that she's going to get the impression that everything is suddenly okay. Which it isn't. Because when she came over, she shouldn't have done... what she did. Not if she was going to forget so easily.

                I still don't understand why she did it. That thought keeps me up at night, wondering. I've yet to come up with an answer that satisfies me.

                “Could you drive me to her place?”

                “No, I was planning on forcing my roommate to pack up his life and carry it onto the El. Of course I'll drive you, just go put your stuff together and we can go.”

                I do as he says, and within ten minutes we are out of our freezing cold apartment and in the warm, toasty car. I shiver and rub my hands together in front of the heater. “This has literally never happened to me before. Our heat never goes out. The air conditioning, maybe, but never the heat. How are people supposed to _live_ like this?”

                “That's why we're not living _there_ ,” he says.

                Arthur thinks he's so clever, doesn't he?

                “Hey, what if we both went over to Matt's apartment, and we raced up to the couch to see who could claim it first?”

                “Dude, why are you so reluctant to stay at Catherine's place? So she's still with that boyfriend who, let's be honest, is probably jerking her around, even if he is pretty good at covering his tracks. That's by no means a permanent thing. She'll figure her shit out eventually. It's not like she's done anything to personally offend you.”

                But she has. I just can't say so.

                So I throw some nonsense at him. “I know. I just thought that maybe a scare like that would be enough.” Which is, I suppose, also true.

                “It's only a matter of time.”

                I hope that he's right.

                Although I have dropped Catherine off at her place a number of times, I have never before had an opportunity to go inside. When I buzz up, I have to take a moment to appreciate the fact that I will soon be in her apartment. It feels like I've attained some achievement for deserving this special opportunity.

                When I reach her landing, the door is open, but she's not standing in front of it. “Sorry, I was right in the middle of making a grilled cheese. Would you like one?” Her phantom voice calls through the apartment, and I spin around in her living room until I spot the kitchen, which seems to be the origin point.

                “Well, I do love a grilled cheese,” I say cheerfully.

                “Good, because otherwise I'd instruct you to order take-out because it's literally the only thing I can make with the food in the house. Also the only thing I can make in general. Funny how that works.”

                I hesitate for a moment, glancing around the room. It's so very... clean. Perhaps my impression is skewed, since Arthur and I tend to operate under the assumption that as long as you can see the floor, then there's no need to clean. But it seems to be especially clean. There is a hallway to my right, and I see a couple of doors breaking off of it, but I decide not to venture down it quite yet, because I've got no idea whether she intends to put me in the guest bedroom—if she has a guest bedroom—or if I'll be stuck on the couch.

                There is, of course, an alternative, but I try not to think about that alternative.

                But in any case, for the time being I decide to drop my belongings next to the couch, and she can direct me to sleep elsewhere if she sees fit. I then follow the smell of slightly burnt bread into the kitchen.

                She smiles at the sight of me. “Afternoon. Sorry to hear about your heat.”

                “Yeah, it kind of sucks. Thanks for taking me in, though, I really appreciate it. Also for the grilled cheese, since I was too busy shivering to eat while I was at home.”

                “Of course! I'm all too happy to oblige. I was a bit...” Catherine hesitates and glances up from the frying pan to look at me for a moment before she returns her focus back to the sandwich. “Surprised that you asked, but I hope you know that I'd welcome you anytime. And as far as the grilled cheese...” She picks up a plate on the counter with an already completed sandwich. “That's for you. It's the darnedest thing; every time I make a grilled cheese, the first one turns out perfect, and the second one ends up burnt.”

                “What a tragedy.” I grin and take the plate.

                Once her own sandwich is done, we sit down at the dinner table to dine on a fine meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup.

                “You lied,” I point out. “You said just grilled cheese, but I clearly see soup sitting here before me.”

                “Proper grilled cheese always involves tomato soup! That's how my mom served it when Karen and I were little. And not so little, now that I think of it. But it was a favorite part of my childhood, when my mom made grilled cheese and I was able to dip it in tomato soup. It was heavenly.”

                I smile down at my own bowl, and thoughtfully dip a corner of my sandwich into the soup, just as Catherine just described. “My mom was the same. She always cooked the best food, though... Even when she was sick, she dragged herself out of bed to make our meals. Thanksgiving was a spectacle, obviously. Anyone who was anyone worth noting in our family wanted to sit at my mom's table for Thanksgiving dinner. And Christmas. And Easter.”

                “So why don't you go home for the holidays anymore?”

                I pause mid-flashback—reliving the consumption of a particularly appetizing pumpkin pie—and stare at her blankly for a moment or so. “Maybe I'm just not worth noting.”

                “I don't believe that.”

                Even though she's trying to be polite, on this particular matter, it rubs me the wrong way, and I divert the conversation.

                “You still insistent that I can't come to see you tonight?”

                Catherine smirks. “'Fraid so, yeah.”

                “Maybe I could just sneakily follow you on your way there.”

                “I'd rather you not...” I'm grinning playfully, but she doesn't match my grin. “I really... I just don't like the pressure that comes from my friends watching me. I've told you that before. Also,” she leans forward on her elbows and looks at me seriously. “How do you know that I don't make jokes about you?”

                Though I'm fairly certain she's bluffing, I start to consider the various remarks that she could make regarding me. 'Don't you just hate it when you accidentally sleep with your friend and then you have to act as though nothing happened?' Yes, comedy gold. “There's nothing one loves to hear discussed more than one's self.”

                “No, David. I'm sorry. I don't want you there.”

                Apparently this was the wrong choice of diversion, because now she's on edge, too. We both sit in silence for some time, until only crumbs are left on our plates and we're left scraping spoons against the edges of our bowls in the hopes that we'll find that last drop of soup.

                Catherine gets up and swats my arm. “C'mon, since you're all eager to expose me to nerdy movies that I've never seen before, it's about time I returned the favor. We've got some time, so lemme show you one of my favorites.”

                I examine the case as she pops the DVD into the player. “ _When Harry Met Sally_? This sounds like a chick flick. As a rule, I don't watch chick flicks.”

                “This is no ordinary chick flick. It's got Billy Crystal in it!”

                “I must admit, that does diminish my reluctance somewhat.”

                She pushes me over to the couch and plops me down. “It's a work of cinematic genius. Just take it in, it's so worth it.”

                “I don't watch chick flicks.”

                “You're watching this one.” She settles in next to me and presses 'play'.

                My worries begin to develop early on—when this Harry guy first says that men and women can't actually be friends with each other. I tell myself, though, that maybe it's just an aside. Maybe they won't address that again.

                Of course, it seems to be a motif through the entire movie. The whole point turns out to be that Harry and Sally can't see how perfect they are for each other and so they try to stay just friends.

                I stare at the screen, bemused—and after a particularly bizarre scene that takes place in a diner, I can't think straight for about five minutes because it makes me second-guess my entire sex life.

                And then Sally comes to Harry's door, all forlorn and devastated, and they sleep together. And then they try to pretend that they didn't sleep together.

                I begin to wonder whether Catherine's trying to make some sort of point in showing me this movie. But when I glance over at her, she's fidgeting in her seat and doing everything in her power not to look at me. So that seems rather unlikely.

                The credits roll, and neither one of us wants to break that silence. There's not a joke that can be made. There's nothing, really, that can be said. So we sit.

                She's the one to risk it. “I was... I was surprised to hear from you this morning, David. With the request to stay here, I mean. It was... surprising.”

                “I was surprised to send the request to stay here.”

                “Where is Arthur staying?”

                “With Matt.”

                “Ah.”

                “Yeah.”

                More silence.

                “That was a, um, good movie,” I offer. “You didn't tell me that Carrie Fisher was in it.”

                “Who's Carrie Fisher?”

                “Princess Leia in Star Wars.”

                “She was the one with the hair, right?”

                I laugh. “Yeah, the one with the hair. Unless you're referring to Chewbacca, in which case, she was the one with slightly less hair.”

                Catherine rolls her eyes. “Don't worry, I can tell the difference between Princess Leia and Chewbaklava.” She goes to put the DVD away, and although I consider correcting her mistake, I decide to let it go. Once _When Harry Met Sally_ is in its proper place in her DVD collection, she gestures to my things. “Feel free to move those into the guest bedroom, by the way. It's the one without any sheets on the bed, because I didn't get to that before you showed up.”

                “I hope you know that if you leave it up to me to put sheets on there, there's a fifty percent chance that I will not bother and I will just fall asleep on a bare mattress.”

                “Nope, I don't believe it. You definitely had sheets on your bed when—” She falters and looks down at her feet. “I wasn't going to make you do it, though. I was going to before I headed out, just in case you wanted to make an early night of it.”

                “Thanks, I appreciate it...”

                I watch as she wanders down the hallway and enters what I assume to be the guest bedroom. “Would you rather have the sheets with the rainbows or the flowers?” she calls.

                Only Catherine would seek out rainbow sheets for a full-sized bed. “Um, whichever one is less likely to give me nightmares, please.”

                “Neither of them... hmm, never mind, I can kind of see... rainbows it is then.”

                I wonder what on earth those flowers could look like, but I figure I'd rather not know.

                She comes out and joins me on the couch again once she's done. “Have you seriously been sitting here staring at a blank television screen for the past five minutes?”

                “I happen to find blank television screens fascinating.”

                “Well, I prefer to rot my brain by staring at moving images, so if you don't mind too terribly, I'm going to turn it on.”

                I shrug. “Whatever floats your boat, I suppose.”

                Until Catherine has to leave, she channel surfs, occasionally lingering on a show for four or five minutes before continuing. More than once, she passes by programs that I would stay on, but I'm reluctant to say anything about it, so for the most part I stare at the screen as though there's still nothing on it. Ponder over possible hidden meanings behind her showing me _When Harry Met Sally_. Because it seems like she didn't think it through, perhaps that's just a front she's putting up to make me think that she didn't think it through, when actually she did and she's trying to make a point about it.

                I realize she's not sitting as close to me. There's not a monstrous gap between us, but compared to her tendency to practically sit on top of me, it still feels pretty enormous.

                Before she leaves, she hands me a pile of take-out menus. “These are some pretty good places in the area. Whatever you order, could you also get something vegetarian for me? I'll probably be hungry when I get home.”

                “Um, yeah, sure.” She shrugs on her coat and tugs on a hat, and she is almost out the door before I think to say, “Don't I need to give them an address? In order for them to deliver here, I mean.”

                “Look at you, being so practical...” She pulls off a glove so that she can scrawl it down on a scrap of paper, which she gives to me as well. “Make yourself at home, David! No need to sit stiffly on the couch for hours while I'm out.” And then, with a flourish, she is out the door.

                I try to do as she instructed. I toss my shoes onto the floor in the middle of the room, just because the cleanliness is vaguely disconcerting. I order my dinner—end up picking some Mediterranean place because she had a few items starred in the menu and my guess was that it meant she liked them a lot. While I wait for my food, I wander through the rooms, looking at her books, at her photos and her decorations.

                I'm inclined to say that it's weird, that she's made so much more effort to make her apartment her own in six months than Arthur and I have in five years. But that doesn't actually surprise me, not really. It takes more to get Catherine to feel at home somewhere. She needs a place to actually be her own.

                The living room breaks off into another room, and my first guess it that it was created to be a dining room. But Catherine doesn't use it as such. Instead, the entire room is filled with books—there are bookcases covering the walls, and there's a table at the center of the room with stacks and stacks of them. Where very aspect of her living room was completely ordered, this room is in complete chaos. Scanning the shelves, I can't figure out what sort of system she's got for storing her books, because it's certainly not alphabetical—James Joyce next to Oscar Wilde next to Kurt Vonnegut next to Vladimir Nabokov. Curious. How curious.

                I hesitate at the door to her bedroom. Most likely, Catherine would have no objection to my going into her room, simply for the sake of relieving some curiosity, but I feel like it would be such an imposition on her privacy that I can't bring myself to do so.

                Food comes. I put hers in the refrigerator—a bottle of cranberry juice and a half-full 2-liter of diet Coke are the only other things perched on the shelves—and eat mine on the couch while watching the Graham Norton Show on BBC America.

                After a great deal of thought, I decide that I do, in fact, want to make an early night of it. I treat myself to a warm shower, and it's as I stand over my bags considering sleeping apparel that I pause to consider my options. At home, it is a boxers-only type of situation. On very chilly nights, I might wear a pair of pajama pants. Under these circumstances, being as peculiar as they are, I've got no idea what would be appropriate.

                I go, at last, for the full pajama pants and tee-shirt look. Better that than to act overly familiar with her.

                Or rather, better that than to actually acknowledge how familiar we are.

                I drift off to sleep—

                And am stirred awake a questionable amount of time later when Catherine comes in the door.

                She's talking on her phone, and although she's trying to keep her voice low, I can tell immediately that she's practically hysterical.

                “—and I just don't understand why it's so hard for you to pick up the phone, especially at a moment like this when I really need you. I just...” At this point, she passes by the guest bedroom, and she must glance in and see that the light is off and that I'm lying in bed, because she lowers her voice more. “I just need you to call me back, please.” She retreats into her bedroom and shuts the door with a loud, frustrated groan. I can hear as she paces back and forth across the floor. I can hear as she starts to cry.

                I feel so torn. I should go ask her what's wrong. My guess is that she just left a message for Twig, and if he's not there for her, then I should be, at least.

                But look at what happened last time I tried to comfort her.

                I'm not entirely averse to it happening again.

                I climb out of bed and pad across the hallway, and I promise myself that I will do whatever it takes to make sure that it doesn't happen again, not this time. 


	13. Chapter 12: Catherine

                Somehow, it doesn't surprise me when David knocks on my door. Although I did my best not to wake him, I know that I certainly made an entrance. I sniffle quietly and instruct him to, "Come on in."

                He opens the door and peeks in, but he does not follow my instruction to enter the room. He watches me from the threshold, and I wish I could describe his expression as something other than 'guarded', but that's exactly what he is. "Hey. Are you, um... are you okay?"

                I shake my head and curl up into myself, pulling my legs tightly to my chest. "Not really, no."

                "Would you like some company?" He inches forward a little bit. "You can, y'know, tell me what's wrong. Or something."

                "Company would be nice," I mumble.

                David crosses over to my bed and sits down on the edge beside me, a few inches of space between us. "I think we should try to do it properly this time, so here's the plan: I'm going to ask, 'What happened?' And then you're going to explain to me what happened. Sound good?"

                I sniffle again and nod.

                "Okay. What happened?"

                "My sister called me while I was on the way home. Well, she called me several times, but obviously I was busy so I didn't pick up until I was on the way home." I take a deep breath. "She was calling to let me know that my dad went to the emergency room this evening."

                He lets out a gasp and pulls me into a tight hug. I promptly bury my face into his neck, and he says gently, "I'm so sorry to hear that. Was it something serious?"

                "No, they don't think so. They think it was side-effects of his diabetes. But they're—"

                "Holding him for observation? Of course. That's a good sign, at least, that they don't think anything's seriously wrong."

                "Doesn't make it any less terrifying," I mumble.

                "Right, of course not. But you might as well count your blessings, and be grateful that it wasn't something more serious."

                I take another deep breath, though this one is less to calm myself down and more because I've realized that David happens to smell very good. I'm not crying anymore, but I don't want to pull out of this embrace, not yet. "I know. I am grateful. But it's also just that…" It's also just that Twig won't pick up his fucking phone, again.

                "Yes?"

                Reluctantly, I do pull away, and scoot over to create some distance between us. "After I talked to Karen, I must have called Twig a dozen times, and he didn't pick up the phone. I was sitting there crying on the El, and I'd say I looked insane, but insanity's nothing out of the ordinary  on the El at this time or night. But in any case, I was crying and I wanted to talk to my boyfriend, but my boyfriend didn't want to talk to me. No surprise there, since he almost never seems up to talking."

                "Catherine?"

                "David."

                "I have a question for you. As a completely objective, third-party observer with absolutely no personal interest in the matter… You talk like you're totally sick of him. So why are you still dating?"

                I raise my eyebrows at him. Absolutely no personal interest in the matter. Clearly. "You want to know why I'm dating Twig?"

                "I do."

                I think of Matt, asking the same question, and I think of the response that I gave to him. I didn't lie with what I said to him. But I was vague. And I look David in the eyes, see his earnest curiosity—biased curiosity, but sincere, at least—and I know that I don't want to be vague.

                "I was depressed," I say at last. "For… a long while. After I graduated from college, I mean. Because I wasn't finding work and I was still living with my parents and that wasn't the life I'd always imagined for myself, so facing the actual state of things was… depressing. Don't freak out, because this isn't the case now, but at the time I was even starting to have thoughts about whether I was even serving a purpose here." I pause and take a deep breath. I don't know if I've ever explained this to someone, not fully. And I can tell that David doesn't yet see where I'm going with this, but he doesn't push me to keep going while I take my moment. "I met Twig while I was at a casting call. We were auditioning to be husband and wife in something or another. Neither of us got the role, but he asked me for my number and we started going on dates. And he made me happy. Happier than I'd been in longer than I could remember. He gives me a purpose. And when we're both in the same city, when I can see him, he still is that person."

                "And this stress when you're apart is worth it when you're together?"

                "Yes."

                "Do you still wonder, ever, if he's cheating on you?"

                All the fucking time. "No. If something's wrong in our relationship, he'll say something to me."

                "So yours is a full-disclosure relationship. I'm glad to hear that you trust each other so fully. How did you break the news to him that when you were certain that he was cheating on you, your first instinct was to run to my apartment and fuck me?"

                "David! Please, stop, I can't… I can't do this conversation. Not now. Please."

                He runs a hand through his hair and for a second I wonder whether he's going to persist. I can already feel tears welling up in my eyes again because if Twig already is ignoring me, I don't need David angry with me too. "You're right, I'm sorry, you've got more important things to worry about. I'm just… I'm just tired. I'm sorry. I can sit with you longer if you'd like, though I'm getting so cranky that I don't know how reassuring I can be."

                "Would you hold me for a little longer?"

                "That, I can probably manage."

                Again, I take the opportunity to breathe him in, to absorb him. I'm filled with an overwhelming desire to tilt kiss him. My current vantage point at his neck would certainly be a good place to start.

                But I don't want him to reject me. And at this point, I know he probably would.

                So instead of kissing David, I cling to him until I have calmed down sufficiently. I say, "Okay, I think it's time for sleep." He starts to get up, but I grab his hand. "Wait. You can, um, stay in here if you want."

                "I really don't think that's a good idea."

                "My intention isn't to seduce you. I could just really use a cuddle."

                He actually laughs, but I don't get the joke. "You're the second person recently who's told me that." I raise my eyebrows, and he quickly adds, "It's not what you think, it was Arthur."

                "That doesn't really make it sound any better." I crawl in under the covers. "But are you joining me or not?"

                "I did not _actually_ cuddle with Arthur! He was just trying to fuck with me… No, that doesn't really help either. He was trying to get into my head… Okay, fuck it, it's not important. Yes, I will stay." David meanders over to his side of the bed, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, he lifts up the covers and climbs in beside me.

                "You can go back to the guest room if you really don't want to sleep with me." The words come out before I can think about them, and I try to pretend that there is only a single meaning attached to that phrase that refers to legitimate _sleep_.

                David joins me in this pretending. "I have no objection to sleeping with you. I'm just waiting for you to lie down so that I can follow your lead. Can't tell what cuddling position to assume, y'know."

                A weak lie, but I accept it because he looks so lost at the thought of so many different cuddling positions from which to choose; at least, I'll keep myself thinking that that's why he's not too eager to settle in. I lie down on my side, facing away from him. The mattress shifts beneath me as he lies down as well, and a moment later he hesitantly rests an arm across my waist, hand curling into my stomach. I smile and overlap his hand with my own, interlacing our fingers. He takes this as a cue and scoots closer. Or perhaps pulls me closer. Or perhaps scoots closer and pulls me closer. In any case, there's no more than an inch of space between us. I feel his chest lightly pressing against my back when he breathes in. He nuzzles his face into my neck, and I let out a satisfied hum.

                I sleep like a baby.

                When I wake up, David is not there. I wonder briefly whether maybe he waited for me to fall asleep, and returned to the other room. I don't think he did. I hope he didn't.

                And then I hear the clattering in the kitchen and the radio blaring.

                Is he cooking?

                _What_ is he cooking? Because last time I checked, I had no food in the house.

                I let out a grunt and pull myself up, out of bed. While I'm scrounging around in my dresser for clothes, a new song comes on and David begins to sing the lyrics. If, y'know, you could call what he's doing 'singing', because that might be questionable. He sounds ridiculous, but I can't help smiling.

                Newly clad in jeans and a tee-shirt, I pad into the kitchen. "I heard your singing, couldn't tell if it was you or the cat."

                He jumps and turns to look at me. "Don't sneak up on people like that! But you have a cat, really?"

                I nod. "When new people come, he likes to lurk on top of my bookshelves, so it's very possible you haven't seen him yet." I sidle up next to him and peer at the stove. He's got eggs going in one pan, hash browns in a second, and pancakes in a third. As I watch, he flips another pancake out of the pan, onto an already sizable stack. "I didn't think I had this many pans. And I know I didn't have this much food."

                "No, you're right. I woke up and I was craving a real breakfast, so I walked over to Jewel and got all of this."

                "I live near a Jewel?"

                David laughs. "You do, yeah. Could you hand me another plate?" he asks, turning off the flames for the eggs and hash browns as he does so.

                I grab a plate and put it in his outstretched hand. He shovels a helping of eggs and hash browns onto it, then returns it to me. "Take however many pancakes you'd like. I took the liberty of also getting maple syrup, that's on the table."

                "But I have maple syrup! It's in the cupboard over there." I gesture vaguely behind me, and suspiciously glance over at the stuff on the table that's lying in wait.

                "No, you've got some bull shit Aunt Jemima's wannabe syrup. That's the real stuff, over there. Make sure to keep it in the fridge, or it'll spoil."

                I select my pancakes and retreat to the table, but stare at the syrup suspiciously. "What kind of maple syrup needs to be refrigerated?"

                "Proper maple syrup." He joins me, and promptly grabs for the bottle. "No need to look so worried, it won't poison you. It's good!" I watch as David pours the syrup over his own food, and can't help but notice that he's also got five plump sausage links on his plate. He evidently notices my gaze, because he says, "Oh yeah, hope you don't mind, I was also craving sausage so I took the liberty of getting some. I'll make sure it's all gone by the time I go back home."

                I shake my head. "I don't mind. It's just some people—" Mostly just Twig. And one of my uncles who always comes to Thanksgiving dinner. "—always make a point to put meat on my plate. Figure that ten years of vegetarianism is 'just a phase' and that they might be able to break me of the habit."

                "What an asshole move."

                "Yeah, I guess." I take the syrup from him and drizzle some over the pancakes, then risk a bite. He watches in amusement as I chew, swallow, and finally, let out a gasp. "That's fucking delicious! Why doesn't everyone use this stuff?"

                David laughs. "Glad to see it has your seal of approval."

                 I'm too busy chewing to give him any response, so I just nod, which makes him laugh more.

                We sit in silence while we eat, until finally my plate is empty and I sit back and sigh contentedly. "That was delicious David, thank you."

                "Of course."

                "I wouldn't have pegged you for a cook." I think of all the jokes that he and Arthur make about how they never have food in the house. I assumed it was because neither of them trusted themselves with a stove. That's certainly why I never have much in my fridge.

                "Well y'know, I dabble. I also pack Arthur a _mean_ sack lunch for work every day. You've got one of those in store tomorrow, if you want. Though then I suppose I have to go out to Jewel again."

                I giggle. "What constitutes a 'mean' sack lunch?"

                "Not sure, it kind of varies. You can come to the store with me if you want, help me decide."

                "I could do that, yeah."

                Which is how I find myself walking down the aisles of the grocery store with David by my side. Try as I might, I can't think of the last time I did something so very… domestic. I never lived with a man before coming to Chicago, because I wasn't serious enough with anyone to even consider it. With Twig, I imagined it perhaps happening somewhere along the line, but then I decided to try my luck here, and he had to stay in Boston. And after that, things kind of went on hold.

                But this feels quite natural, doing the shopping with David. He bounds around the store in search of various items, and I feel the need to smile and tease, to say, "Sometimes I wonder if you're a four-year-old in a grown man's body."

                "Oh no! You've figured me out." He tosses a tin of bread crumbs into the cart. I didn't even know they sold actual bread crumbs. "Now I suppose I'll have to kill you before you reveal my secret." At that precise moment, we're passing by an older woman who gives David a startled look. He rushes to inform her that he was, "Only joking, ma'am, only joking… Violence isn't in my nature." Once we've passed out of earshot, he adds, "Except when I'm playing Mario Kart, then if someone crosses me they're dead."

                "So definitely four years old, then." We pass the cereal aisle, and I exclaim, "Hang on, I want to get some Lucky Charms! I ran out a few days ago."

                "You eat Lucky Charms, and I'm the four-year-old…" he mutters.

                "I heard that!"

                I wish I didn't find every word that comes out of his mouth so amusing. It would be easier to get irritated with him if he weren't so sweet at the same time.

                While he stands at the deli, I wander off toward the fruits and vegetables, which he has, up until now, disregarded. They've got some particularly good-looking apples, and I look up to get David's attention and ask if he'd like any. But his eyes are already on me, and he's got a far-off smile on his face. I blush slightly as I call out my question. He nods in the affirmative, so I begin to pick out apples. I work very hard to keep myself from looking back up, not wanting to indulge my curiosity to know whether his gaze is still directed my way.

                Or rather, desperately wanting to indulge my curiosity, but not sure what I'd rather like to see if I risked another glance at him.

                I muse that the two of us are quite a spectacle, navigating the grocery store as we play house. But as soon as the thought comes to me, I have no choice but to dismiss it because in truth, we look perfectly natural together. He comes to join me by the produce, and I put the bag of apples into the cart, and when I follow him onwards I know that anyone who looked at us would have no question about the status of our relationship. Brother and sister? No. Friends? Just friends? Certainly not.

                So no. We are not a spectacle. Playing house, maybe, but no one else would consider the fact that we might be just playing.

                At the check-out, we bicker over payment. He manages to hand over his credit card, even as I protest, but when he's not paying attention I tuck two twenties into his pocket—for a hundred dollar grocery shopping spree, it's the least I could do.

                Almost as soon as we cross the threshold of my apartment, his phone goes off. Immediately, he drops all of his bags on the floor, making more than one loud 'clang' as they hit the hardwood.

                "It's Arthur! Maybe he's heard how long it'll be until the heat's fixed."

                "Oh, that's cool…" I stand awkwardly for a moment, then realize that there's no point in my lingering to listen to the conversation, so I take my bags and head into the kitchen to put the food away.

                David joins me soon enough to help. He doesn't say anything about the phone call, so I ask, "How's Arthur doing?"

                "He's doing well. Apparently our landlord says that we should be able to move back in on Wednesday."

                "Sounds great." I was imagining that he was going to announce that he'd be able to go home now, and I can't help it if I feel a weird sense of relief.

                "Yeah. He's disappointed about it. Apparently Matt's driving him mad… He asked if we can switch."

                Like that's going to happen. I laugh. "What did you say to that?"

                "I told him there was no way that was going to happen." He catches my eye and tries to smile—I think it's a smile, at least, but it doesn't reach his eyes and ends up looking more like a grimace. He clears his throat and holds up the apples. "Should I put these in the fridge or do you keep them out in a fruit bowl or something?"

                "Fridge, please."

                I lean against my counter and sigh, taking in the sight of David as he bustles around the kitchen. He's started whistling—some Christmas tune or another.

                I could certainly get used to this.


	14. Chapter 13: David

                Somewhere around 6 o'clock Sunday evening, Catherine finally seems to come to the decision that as I am temporarily living in her apartment, she need not treat me like a guest and bother about keeping me constantly entertained.

                At that point, she grabs the remote from me and says, "Okay David, I've got some shows to watch, so you can either join me or you can find something else to do."

                "What shows?" Perhaps it's something that we both like. Perhaps she needs to catch up on something that I missed too.

                Instead, she flips to TLC.

                I stare at the screen in bemusement. Right now, some show is on that, from first glance, seems to be about wedding dresses. I don't want to watch a show about wedding dresses.

                "Do you seriously watch this stuff?"

                She frowns. "What's wrong with it?"

                "Maybe the fact that for a channel called 'The Learning Channel', it's astonishing how many brain cells you'll kill while watching it."

                "Alright then, go on, save your brain cells and find something else to do."

                Even after she tells me to go away, I'm reluctant to do so. What else have I got to do? Nothing interesting, to be sure. I have no real objection to losing brain cells if it's happening while I'm sitting next to Catherine; I'd just prefer to be next to her and watching something _interesting_.

                So for a few minutes, I watch with Catherine as women scrounge around in this store in search of the Perfect Wedding Dress.

                But it doesn't take long for me to tire of it. "This is ridiculous. Do women legitimately think that there is One Dress that's absolutely meant for them to wear on the day they get married?"

                "I don't know, maybe? I'm a bad person to ask; I'm still not sure that I ever want to get married."

                She's _what_? I try to remain nonchalant. "Oh?"

                "Yeah, I mean… why should we have to spend thousands upon thousands of dollars for a ceremony where we promise ourselves to each other? If we're in love and we're dedicated to staying together for the rest of our lives, I just don't know if there's any need to put it on paper and turn it into a spectacle." She shrugs. "Thus far, at least, I haven't dated anyone who's made me think otherwise."

                I've heard this argument before, and I hate it because I have yet to come up with a practical retort. Marriage isn't practical? Yes it is. Why? Because… because it is.

                "How does Twig feel about that?"

                "He agrees wholeheartedly."

                Of course he does.

                At the mention of his name, Catherine's face falls. Since last night, he still hasn't called her back—I've been within earshot every waking moment of the day, so I would know if he'd taken the time. I wonder if she's been worrying over it all day. She probably has been on the edge of her seat, waiting for his call. Waiting for the call of a man who probably believes in non-marriage so that he can feel less guilty about sleeping with other women on the side.

                Now the sight of those dresses makes me feel sick. I clear my throat awkwardly as I stand up. "This is too much. I'm going to go read a book or something."

                "Alright, you do that."

                Doesn't look like she's going to miss me much.

                I wander into the chaos that is her makeshift library, and scan the shelves in search of something appealing. But it's such a mess that I can't figure out where to start.

                "Is there no order to this system?" I shout.

                "You're just not looking hard enough," she calls back.

                I highly doubt that, but I let it go and, after some consideration, go with Hamlet. "Just a bit of light reading," I say, waving the book in front of her as I head to the guest bedroom.

                "Spoiler alert: he dies at the end."

                "Fuck! Well, there's not even a point in reading it anymore…" Despite this declaration, I proceed to the bedroom with book in hand, and she laughs after me.

                But I can't seem to make much headway. Every time I look down at the page, my mind wanders.

                How can Catherine possibly say that she doesn't see the _point_ to marriage? That's the kind of thing that asshole guys tell their girlfriends (like Twig, for example). People don't actually _believe_ it.

                Except, apparently, she believes it.

                I think of what she told me last night, about how she was depressed. And then Twig came along, and she says that he "gave her a purpose". Makes me wonder if she even realizes the words that come out of her mouth when she talks about him. Does she realize how she sounds?

                Probably not.

                 I give up on Hamlet after only one scene. Shakespeare is not literature with which to clear a cluttered mind. Instead, I pick up my phone. I want to talk to someone. Not Arthur. Not Matt. Neither of them would have anything helpful to say right now.

                So after deliberating for a few moments, I call Billie.

                "Hi David! It's good to hear from you, it's been a little while."

                "Yeah, I'm sorry… I've been neglecting you a little bit, haven't I?"

                She chuckles. "Just a touch. But I can't blame you; I talked to Arthur last night and he updated me on recent events."

                "Of course he did."

                "So how _is_ the sleepover going? Unless you're not getting much sleeping done." I promptly picture her winking crudely.

                "It's going fine. Nothing like that, though."

                "Really? Still? That's not much like you, David."

                "You don't know the half of it…" I grumble.

                Billie gasps. "That's mysterious. I don't suppose you intend to disclose this big secret, do you?"

                Even though I'm fully aware that she can't see me, I shake my head. "Sorry, Bills. Not right now." Maybe not ever. Not if things keep going this way. Maybe not even if things go right.

                "God, you're a spoilsport. In that case, can I tell you about the date I went on Friday night?"

                "You went on a date? Do tell, do tell!" I sit upright with newfound interest.

                "His name is Laurence, and I met him at the gym. We're going out again later this week. He's a real sweetheart."

                I laugh. "I should hope so, if he asked you out at the gym. Let me guess, he was drawn in by the yoga pants?"

                "Actually, I asked him out. But you're confusing him with yourself, dear. Because if I recall correctly, that's where we were when you and I first met, wasn't it?"

                Who knows the last time I thought back to that. I smirk at the thought. Seems like a lifetime ago.

                "Fair enough, fair enough. But I'm really happy to hear it. How soon until I get to meet him and threaten him in the name of your honor?"

                "I'd really rather you _not_ , if it's all the same to you."

                "You don't let me have any fun anymore…"

                "Rather than trying to mess with my relationship, you could always try to figure out your own."

                No need for her to pull that. I called her to get my mind off of this and instead she insists on steering the conversation back. "Can we please talk about something else?"

                "Actually, I need to run. I'm at a show and it's about to start."

                "On a Sunday night?"

                "Yes, on a Sunday night! So I'll talk to you soon. And you still owe me that dinner."

                "Dinner. Yes. Dinner soon."

                "Bye."

                "Talk to you later, Billie."

                Well, as far as distracting myself, that didn't help in the slightest.

                I sit on the bed and sulk for as long as I can stand it, but finally I go out and join Catherine in the living room once again.

                "Tired of the Prince of Denmark, did you?"

                I shrug. "Shakespeare just seems to be going over my head tonight, so I thought I'd just join you in destroying brain cells."

                "Funny you should choose now, because I was just about to let you know that they're showing something on Syfy that seems right up your alley. Something about space cowboys…"

                "No way! Is it still on?"

                She points to the screen. "Yeah, I picked it already."

                Though I was vaguely suspicious that it would be some bizarre, third-rate sci-fi movie, that is most certainly Nathan Fillion on the screen. I grin. "Oh my God Catherine, you turned Firefly on of your own volition. I could kiss you right now."

                "Okay."

                I meet her gaze, half-expecting her to take me up on the offer immediately if I don't promptly pull back. But she just looks at me earnestly and waits for me to make a move.

                "Do you… do you think you're funny?"

                "I do, yeah. So do the people who pay me to get up on stage and make jokes at their fine dining establishments. Also, Karen thinks I'm funny. And my parents. And most of my friends and acquaintances. But just to clarify, that was not me trying to be funny."

                Yes, I'm acutely aware of that fact, but one can always hope, I suppose. "Why… why do you always feel the need to tease me?"

                She frowns. "That's not my intention."

                "Then what is your intention?"

                I'm scared to hear her response, and it turns out that I have every reason to be. Her gaze drifts down from my eyes to my lips, and she stares at them pointedly before making eye contact again. "My intention is to kiss you again. If you'll let me."

                "You can't just keep coming to me every time your boyfriend disappoints you. I don't want to be that to you." I couldn't handle it if she toyed with me like that.

                "Twig's got nothing to do with this," she exclaims.

                Given the circumstances of the first occasion that she came on to me, and the circumstances tonight, I would disagree. But now is hardly the proper moment to go into a detailed psychoanalysis. I run a hand through my hair, exasperated. "Don't think about Twig, then. Think about me."

                "That's what I'm trying to do…" Her hand inches up my thigh as she leans closer.

                I stop her hand. I don't push it away, but I hold it down to prevent her from driving this farther. "Not what I meant. There's no way you don't… I mean to say, you know how I feel about you." My voice is shaking. It's the closest I've come to admitting it to her aloud. "And I don't… I can't…" If she leaves this in my hands, I will give in, and I will almost certainly hate myself for it afterward. "I can't stand to watch you just run away again."

                "We're in my apartment, David. You're staying here. Where am I going to run?"

                "If you wanted, I'm sure you could find a way. You're very determined, you know." As is evidenced by the fact that we're having this conversation.

                "Fine then. I don't _want_ to run. I want to wake up in bed next to you tomorrow and I want you to make me one of those 'mean' sack lunches you've been boasting about. And I want to come home from work to your bright, cheerful face and I want to fall asleep in your arms and I want to do it all over again on Tuesday."

                God, the gleam in her eyes, and her low, breathy whisper… It takes everything in me to ask, "And Wednesday? What happens on Wednesday?"

                "You go home."

                Not the right answer.

                I throw caution to the wind and kiss her anyway. Because even though I have countless reasons to keep her at arm's length, even though I will—there's no 'almost certainly' about it—hate myself… I can have some temporary happiness, so long as I don't wonder about Wednesday, and all of the days following.

                Unlike that night a week ago at my apartment—was it only a week? a week and a half, perhaps, but still, basically only a week—we don't rush it. I end up lying practically horizontal on top of her on the couch, finally nipping and sucking at her neck because this time she doesn't have her family's scrutiny to worry about.

                "I still can't believe you're a biter," she says. Her words sound distant and distracted. I wonder where her mind is. I bite down a bit harder, just to be sure to bring her mind back to me, to this. She lets out a hiss, and I smile against her skin, even as she mutters, "You're so juvenile."

                I pull back and take in the sight of Catherine, skin flushed and pupils enormous. Her blouse is unbuttoned halfway and her chest is heaving. Her hands shake, even as they hold me, as she eagerly tries to kiss me again. I peck her on the lips, but when she attempts to deepen the kiss, I again pull away. "If I'm juvenile, then shouldn't it worry you that I'm getting you so hot and bothered?"

                "Not hot and bothered. You're not getting me hot and bothered."

                "Oh?" Another brief peck on the lips. "Not a little hot? Not a little bothered?"

                "I'm not bothered," she declares.

                I grin and glance down at that beautiful bosom of hers. "Well, if you're not bothered, then I suppose there's no harm in my doing this." I cup her breast in my hand, push the lace fabric of her bra aside and gently begin to rub the pad of my thumb across her skin. Lightly drawing circles, incrementally smaller around her nipple. I watch her closely, and when my thumb finally brushes the peak, she lets out a breath.

                "Still not bothered."

                "No, I shouldn't think so. I wasn't trying right then. That was just an excuse to feel your breasts. Although I appreciate the goosebumps, that's quite nice." I grin.

                "Oh, fuck off."

                "Alright, if you insist." I begin to scramble off of her, but she grips me tight and keeps me close. "Or not. I suppose I could stay, too."

                She sighs. "What was that I said about juvenile?"

                "That's right, I'm juvenile. Thanks for reminding me…" I hesitate for just a moment before my mouth replaces my thumb.

                It seems that somehow, Catherine wasn't expecting it. And when I bite down, hard, she lets out a loud gasp and grabs me by the hair, pulling me up and into a kiss; a kiss with just a hint of that urgency, that urgency that clouded that last night and I can't stand it because its presence makes this moment feel empty, somehow.

                Thankfully I need not endure it for long because she pauses to catch her breath. And she confesses, "Perhaps I am hot and bothered. If only slightly. And I'm also getting far too tired of this cramped couch, so I'd say it's time we migrate."

                Now she lets me get up, and I take her hand to pull her up after me. She looks down at herself, in all her disheveled glory, and says, "I feel the need to straighten myself up but there's no point since in a few minutes I won't be wearing this anyway."

                "Well, if it's making you uncomfortable, if you want we could always speed up the process." I reach for a button that still sits tucked in its place. I undo it, and the next, and the next. The shirt falls open completely and she sheds it immediately, then grabs my hand with a giggle. "Let's go, c'mon."

                As I follow her down the hallway, I ask, "Is now a bad time to mention that I didn't exactly come prepared for this eventuality?"

                She pauses to consider this. "Honestly, if you had, I probably would have promptly booted you out." That's logic for you. "But that doesn't matter much, does it? There's plenty else we could do."

                The way she says it is so very patronizing that I almost want to joke that yes, there is plenty else we could do; we could go back and watch Firefly, or play a rousing game of Uno, or I could help her sort out that fucking library. But I don't think she would take such a remark too well at this present moment in time.  Mind you, if she felt like teasing me in turn and taking me up on the offer, I wouldn't be particularly pleased either.

                So instead, I take the lead into her room, saying, "Trust me, I wouldn't have let it go this far unless I had a couple of ideas."

                Because I can at least try to pretend that I have the capacity to stop this, if I feel so inclined.


	15. Chapter 14: Catherine

                "Trust me, I wouldn't have let it go this far unless I had a couple of ideas." He deserves to have that cheeky grin wiped away, and I rush after him because I think I'm most definitely the woman for the job.

                David attempts to push me down on my bed so that we can return to a position similar to the one we were in out on the couch, but I have something else in mind and I roll over so that I'm on top of him. I sit up and straddle him at the hips, looking down at him and biting my lip as I consider him for a moment.

                "Why the fuck do you always have to do that?"

                I frown. "Do what? I'm not doing anything." Nothing except sitting on top of him and I doubt that he's got any real objections to that.

                "Bite your lip. Every time you do it, I want to fuck you senseless."

                Oh. I blush. That's certainly not what I was expecting him to say. I suddenly become very self-conscious of it and don't know whether or not I should stop. "Really? Do I… I mean, I don't notice, do I do it often?"

                "All the time. Every few minutes or so. It seems to be kind of your default expression. Which is fairly distressing, if you can imagine."

                Talk about hot and bothered. He's just essentially admitted that he can't go five minutes in my presence without thinking about sleeping with me.

                "Yes, I can imagine. How on earth do you cope?"

                "Well…" David's hands come to settle on my hips and he adjusts himself slightly beneath me. I become suddenly aware of the bulge of his cock pressing against me between our layers of clothing, and my blush deepens. He's grinning shamelessly. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

                How very cheeky. He has absolutely no right to look quite so pleased with himself.

                Which brings to mind my initial intentions in regards to wiping a smile off of his face. So I lean down and kiss him hard. My hands go down to the buttons of his shirt, and I begin to work at undoing them just as he bites down on my lower lip. I let out a gasp into his mouth, and unless I'm mistaken—there's no way I'm mistaken—he has the nerve to giggle.

                I break the kiss, but leave only an inch or two of space between us as I whisper, "Why so giddy, David? We haven't even gotten to the fun part yet."

                "I know, but you haven't let me get you out of those clothes."

                "That's because you're coming first." His shirt now open, I sit up and climb off of him to unbutton and unzip his jeans.

                He arches his hips up off the bed so that he can kick his pants away. "Please tell me that's intended as a pun."

                I smirk and raise my eyebrows. "Would you like it to be?"

                "Well, I mean, if you're offering…"

                "God, you're a smart ass."

                David grabs for my hand and intertwines our fingers, looking up at me with a fond smile. "Says the woman who made a double entendre about making me come. An endeavor I see you making no progress on, by the way."

                For all his playful words, I can't help but wonder what's going on in his head. Because he's looking at me and even though he's smiling… I see sadness in his eyes.

                I wonder if he wonders what's going on in _my_ head.

                If he figures it out, I sure hope he tells me.

                I bite my lip again—only partially on purpose. “I dunno if you deserve it, though. Lying there, just being all clever.”

                “But it’s my best quality, the cleverness.”

                “You think?” I shake my head. “No. Definitely your hair. Or your eyes. Or, y’know, when you’re wearing those glasses…”

                “Wearing glasses is not a quality.” Still, though, David won’t stop grinning. Always grinning.

                “The smile, too…” I murmur wistfully. “And even the fact that you’re a skinny piece of nothing doesn't detract from your overall appeal.”

                “Hey, what d’you mean, ‘skinny piece of nothing’? I’m not that skinny.”

                I look him up and down. “You kind of are, dear. But it works on you.”

                “What other good qualities do I possess?”

                “I wasn't exactly planning on getting you off by fluffing your ego…” I consider his question anyway. “You make me laugh. I like a guy who makes me laugh, and I’ve never met anyone who’s done it as easily as you do.”

                “Not the only thing I can do to you more easily, I’m sure.”

                I giggle. “You’re so crass tonight, David, what’s gotten into you?” I take care not to dignify his comment with a legitimate answer.

                “You hardly let me get a word in edge-wise last time, so I figure I’ve got to make up for it now.”

                For a few moments, the room suddenly feels tense. I don’t know what to say to that, but I think he knows that I don’t have a response.

                And then, from the other room, I hear my cell phone ringing.

                I stare down at David, wide-eyed. The skinny piece of nothing with the perfect hair and the beautiful smile and the beautiful eyes—eyes watching me as he tries to gauge my reaction to the sound.

                “You’re biting your lip,” he whispers, and it’s completely unintentional now. I promptly stop.

                I went most of the day without thinking about Twig, without wondering whether he was going to call. Until David mentioned him, at least, and then the thoughts all came rushing to my mind at once, more worry and wondering.

                Then David kissed me, and I wasn’t worrying, not anymore.

                But I can think of no one else who would be calling me right now. Karen told me she was going to be on a date with Matt, and there’s no way that’s through so early. And other than her, other than Twig, nobody calls me. Aside from David, and given the current circumstances, that’s rather unlikely.

                “Hey.” David sits up and scoots closer to me, grabbing ahold of my other hand and squeezing them both tightly. “Please stay. Please don’t answer. It can wait.”

                I know that there's no doubt in his mind who it is on the phone. Which means that he knows exactly what he's asking me to do.

                What would the repercussions be if I went to answer the phone? What would they be if I didn't?

                Twig has no idea why I might not pick up. Of course, it would be the first time in… I can't remember how long since I let him go to voicemail. But there's a first for everything.

                David, though… I look into his pleading eyes and I think of everything that he's let me get away with, everything that I've done that assures me that he deserves better. He's forgiven me so far, but I don't know if he'd ever be able to forgive me for running to answer that phone.

                I take a deep breath and nod. "You're right. It can wait." If Twig has kept me waiting, then I can do the same.

                We sit together in silence until the ringing has subsided.

                Neither of us seems to know where to go from here. One glance down at David is enough to indicate to me that his hard-on is all but gone—nothing like a phone call from a girl's boyfriend to ruin the mood (I find that thought more amusing than I should). But I get the feeling that, if I felt so inclined, he would not be averse to returning to that previous line of activities. Nor would I, for that matter.

                But something about it just doesn't feel right.

                "Maybe we shouldn't take this any further," I say, carefully. "Not tonight." Don't think I mean never. Whatever you do, David, please don't think that I mean never.

                This doesn't appear to faze him. "Okay."

                Although this has been agreed upon, we don't move from our spot on my bed. He's still got my hands in an iron grip. It's hard to imagine going back into my living room and going back to watching television like nothing happened. Besides which, if I go out there, the temptation would be too great to pick up the phone and call Twig back. It would be a shame leave him wondering and waiting. Wouldn't want that, now, would we?

                I do want that, though, and going back in there might make it too tempting.

                Perhaps David sees through me and notes this internal struggle, or perhaps he just gets tired of waiting for me to make a move. In any case, he releases me and lies back down, settling in with his hands behind his head. "Do you know what else you do, Catherine? Aside from the lip biting. Which, for the record, I maintain is absolute torture for a poor, unfortunate soul like me."

                "What else do I do?" I follow in his lead and also lie down, curling up on my side and facing him so that I can stare at his profile while he blinks up at the ceiling.

                "When I make a reference to you that you can't place, you get this tragic, far-off look in your eyes. It's like if you don't figure it out, your whole world is going to come to an end." He turns his head to look at me, and he smiles. "But if you understand, you bounce around and you giggle and you just look so pleased with yourself. And I can't help but feel so proud of you, just for remembering something like that Spock's the guy with the pointy ears. I'm just filled with this surge of pride. And it seems so silly, but that doesn't stop me. Just being proud of you knowing who Spock is, I can't believe myself..."

                "I didn't know who he was before you introduced me to the show. And honestly I'll probably forget sooner or later and you'll have to remind me."

                David laughs and shakes his head. "So true. God, what a woman to—" He falters. What a woman to what, David? "You also pout a lot," he says. Instead of finishing that thought. Where was he going with that?

                "I do not pout!" I totally do, and I know it. It makes me angry. It's so irritating when women pout, and I do it without even meaning to.

                "You do, though! When you're not biting your lip, you're pouting. As if I didn't want to kiss you enough already, you always have to be drawing my attention to your mouth…"

                I blush. "Get off it, you're just saying that to make feel self-conscious."

                "Am not! Although sometimes I do say things just to make you blush. When you're blushing and biting your lip at the same time, I quite like that."

                My first instinct is, in fact, to bite my lip, but I resist the urge so as not to give him the satisfaction. I hesitate, then say, "You can't blink properly."

                "I what?"

                "You have a wonky blink! Always leave one eye slightly open."

                "No I don't."

                "Just a little bit, yeah." As if to illustrate my point, he blinks. "You just did it then!"

                "I did not!"

                I can't keep a straight face anymore, and I burst into a fit of giggles. David quickly breaks down too. When we have calmed down sufficiently, he reaches out and takes my hand again. "Do I really blink weird?"

                I nod, and resist the urge to giggle again. "The weirdest. Weirder than anyone I've ever seen."

                "Not to make me self-conscious, or anything."

                "If you can do it to me, why can't I do it to you?"

                "We're back to doing it to each other, are we? Does that mean sex isn't out of the question?"

                He's back to wearing that same cocky smile, and I can't hold back my giggle anymore. I settle my hand in the nape of his neck and pull him closer, pull myself closer, pull us flush together so that I can kiss him—a lazy, tender kiss that seems to last forever. His hand settles on my waist and he presses against me, and everywhere our skin touches, I feel goosebumps. He's still grinning into our kiss, grinning as his tongue runs along my teeth, as he nibbles on my lip and as he works my bra free (it's ridiculous how long it takes him to get my bra off).

                I pull back at last to catch my breath, and David gazes at me, blinking that wonky blink and smiling that perfect smile. His hair is mussed where I've run my hands through it and I try to flatten some of it back into place. It doesn't work too well.

                 "If you're going to kiss me like that and then tell me that sex _is_ out of the question, I think I might cry."

                In all honesty, I'm still torn on the matter.

                So I make a split-second decision and say, "Well, we wouldn't want to make you cry, would we?"


	16. Chapter 15: David

                Normally, when I wake up in the morning, I want nothing more than to jump out of bed. I want to make breakfast; run around the block; run around the entire city of Chicago; I'm really not picky. I'm just full of that much energy.

                But I wake up on this particular Monday, and it takes me a mere moment to realize that Catherine's head is on my chest, and that she's still fast asleep.

                And I find that on this particular morning, I feel like I could stay in bed forever.

                I focus on my breathing, trying to regulate it so that the up-and-down movement of my chest doesn't wake her up. I do everything in my power not to move a muscle because Catherine is asleep on top of me and it's quite possibly the most glorious thing that I've ever experienced.

                I play back the events of last night and I can't help but smile. As immature as it might sound, I feel like I've won, somehow. For the moment, at least. I don't feel like she ran into my arms just because I was _there_. Instead, she picked me. For the moment.

                Maybe she's finally seeing sense. Maybe she's seeing that she shouldn't have to always talk to her boyfriend on his terms…

                Well, maybe she's seeing that there's better out there than him. (To be clear, that better is me)

                I'm hopeful that this is the case.

                Not completely hopeful, though. On one matter, I'm keeping my mouth tightly shut. Almost blew it last night, though. Almost. Hoping and praying that she didn't catch it.

                She probably suspects, of course.  I don't exactly go to great lengths to hide it.

                But I can't risk telling her. Not flat-out.

                Eventually, she stirs; it feels like seconds after I wake up, even though in reality I think it's more like ten, perhaps even fifteen minutes.

                Regardless of how long it takes, she _does_ finally wake, her eyelids fluttering open and, at the sight of me, a sleepy smile lighting up her face. Certainly an improvement from last time. This time she doesn't look like she wants to erase the whole night from both of our memories.

                "Morning," she murmurs. She doesn't move from her position, resting on my chest. I quite like this. "What time 's it?"

                "Not sure." My phone is, I think, on the floor in my pants pocket. Sadly, I have to pull myself away to go pull it out and check the clock. "Quarter after seven."

                She bolts upright. "You're kidding."

                "Afraid not?"

                "I'm supposed to be on my way to work right now." Immediately, Catherine is rolling out of bed and rushing to her dresser in search of clean clothes—tragedy, that.

                Given that I find far less joy in watching Catherine dress than I do in watching her undress, I opt to collect my clothes and retreat to the guest bedroom, where all of my belongings are still stored.

                "You should take a shower," I call, as I'm picking through my bag to find actual work-appropriate clothing.

                "Are you insinuating something?"

                I chuckle, and peer out the door and into her room. She's standing in front of her mirror in just her underwear, trying to rush a brush through her hair. "You look like you got laid last night."

                "Why does that matter if I'm just going to stand behind a register in a coffeeshop?"

                "Because our friends are such gossips that all of your coworkers probably know that I'm here." I start on the buttons of my dress shirt and  stroll back into her room. I linger a few inches behind her, settling my hands on her hips and meeting her gaze in the mirror. "And if they see you looking like that, and they know that I'm sleeping at your apartment… Well, they might assume something is happening." I press my lips lightly on the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, then begin to pepper kisses along her shoulder blade.

                What an absurd idea, that something could be happening between me and Catherine. So very, very absurd.

                It's a little unnerving, just how nonchalant I'm being about this. I'm simply helping her to ignore the real problem: that she's dating another man, but she also has feelings for me. Her relationship is failing, and she can see it—sometimes—and she has feelings for me.

                At least, I think she does.

                But it's just her luck that right now, I want to keep it a secret too. I wouldn't be able to handle Matt and Arthur's reaction if they somehow found out about this.

                "David," she squirms in my arms. "I don't have time for a shower, I need to go." Nevertheless, she doesn't pull away from me. No time for a shower, perhaps, but she certainly still seems to be reluctant to leave.

                "You might as well, though…" I breathe the words into the crook of her neck. "You need to give me time to make you your lunch."

                Catherine tilts her head to the side to give me better access as I kiss her pale skin. "That's right," she sighs. "Your 'mean' sack lunches. How can I leave without that?"

                I hesitate before inching my fingers into the waistline of her panties, but I stop with my hand on her hip bone. "Precisely. If you're going to be late anyway, you might as well arrive well-groomed and with a nice midday meal."

                "Maybe…" I dip my hand lower as she murmurs, "Maybe there wouldn't be much harm in lingering around."

                "Lovely. Then while you're taking a shower, I'll work on lunch." I pull my hand out and turn away, walking nonchalantly back into the guest bedroom so that I can put on my trousers.

                "Tease," she calls after me, but I hear the bathroom door open and close within seconds and I grin.

                Now fully clad, I head to the kitchen to start on the food.

                Five minutes later, the shower goes off. When I hear Catherine emerge, I call out to her. "Would you rather have peanut butter and jelly, or peanut butter and bananas?"

                "Peanut butter and… how old do you think I am, David? Next you're going to tell me that you bought one of those sandwich cutters that takes off the crust and makes the two halves into dinosaurs." I glance down at the counter, at the sandwich cutter I bought that takes off the crust and makes the two halves into dinosaurs. Fine then, she just won't be getting dinosaur-shaped food, I suppose. Her voice comes from the doorway. "Also, I don't like bananas."

                "You don't what? But bananas—" I spin around to look at her and immediately lose track of whatever I was going to say. She's drying her hair with a towel, but she's not wearing one. In fact, she's not wearing _anything_.

                "Bananas are what?" A pause. "David, why are you staring at me? Do I have something on my face?"  

                It's clear that she must have toweled off, at least, to wipe away any excess moisture. But her skin is still glistening, and water droplets are still scattered across her body. I suppress an agonizing, guttural groan and shake my head to push aside untoward thoughts. It doesn't work too well.

                "And you called me a tease," I choke out at last.

                "What, this?" Catherine looks down at herself. "It's my apartment, I can walk around naked if I want."

                "We might not make it to work if you do." I realize that I'm still holding a knife covered with peanut butter, and I drop it onto the cutting board. The resulting clatter echoes through my head as I walk toward her. She's leaning against the door frame, still drying her hair, still maintaining a cool demeanor.

                "Mr. McDonald, are you telling me to play hookie?"

                I rest my arm on the door frame and lean over her; she cranes her neck back to maintain eye contact. "Perhaps you've just come down with a severe cold. Absolutely can't come in, there's no avoiding it. Matt or Freema or Alex or whomever will just have to cope without you this morning."

                Catherine smirks and shakes her head. "My mother always warned me about boys like you."

                "Boys trying to get you to bail on work so that they can fuck you on every flat surface in your apartment?"

                "Exactly her words, actually. 'Always be wary of the boys who try to get you to bail on work so that they can fuck you on every flat surface in your apartment,' she said. 'Those are the worst of the worst,' she said."

                We both giggle and I lean in, resting my forehead against hers.  "C'mon, let's stay in today. I can introduce you to _Doctor Who_. Or we could fuck on every flat surface. Or we could do a little bit of both. I'm really up for anything, so long as sex is on the table." I frown. "So long as sex is a possibility. Although if you wanted to have sex on the table…"

                "Oh, shove off, I can't say no to you. Just let me go get dressed." Catherine pushes off from the doorframe and squeezes under my arm, into the living room. Hair now thoroughly dried, she wraps the towel around her torso and I sigh.

                "Why…" Why is she getting dressed when I could currently be getting _un_ dressed instead? "What are we going to do?"

                "We're going shopping."

                Going shopping again? What for? "Why? We've got enough food to last you into next week."

                "Not for food."

                "What, then?"

                "Think, David!"

                I pause to think, and then the pin drops and I feel like a moron. Of course we need to go shopping.

                Before we go out again, Catherine calls Alex at the coffee shop. For nearly a minute, Catherine can't get a word in edgewise, and it seems like Alex is giving her a thorough chewing out. She's cringing the whole time, and I can't blame her; if I had Alex yelling at me, even over the phone, I would be relatively terrified.

                Finally, Catherine manages to get out, "I'm sick, Alex. I slept in late and I barely have the energy to get out of bed, let alone haul myself over to work. I'm sorry." She pauses, and Alex says something on the other end of the line. Catherine blushes. "No, don't be ridiculous. How the hell did you hear about that, anyway?" Another pause. "Figures. Well, no, I'm really not feeling well." She adds in a loud cough for effect. "Yes, I'll drink tea and make soup. Yes, maybe a bubble bath too." Her eyes widen. "Oh, no, that's not necessary. David promised to bring me back some things when he got off of work." She glances at me and smiles slightly. "Yeah, he is a sweetie, isn't he? Well, again, I'm sorry. I'm going to get some more sleep."

                Evidently convinced that Catherine is genuinely unwell, Alex lets her go soon after. After hanging up, she looks at me and sighs. "She asked me if you being here had anything to do with this sudden onslaught of sickness."

                "What? How did _she_ know?"

                "Matt."

                I roll my eyes. "I need to have a talk with him."

                "It can wait a day or two, don't you think?" She tosses me my coat. "Come on, let's go to the store."

                Today, it's even colder out than it was yesterday. We shuffle along the sidewalk, holding hands and trying to remain close together so as to conserve some warmth. With Jewel in sight, I start to run, pulling her behind me. We hit a patch of black ice and she squeals as we slide across it, which makes me laugh and almost fall over.

                She keeps me steady, but says, "Don't think that you're dragging me down with you if you fall on your ass."

                "Oh no, I'm holding on tight; either neither of us falls or both of us do."

                When we get inside, Catherine looks around. "I don't know this Jewel at all. Where do you think they would be?" she says slowly.

                "Like hell if I know. I don't buy condoms."

                "God, of course you don't." She points to our left. "I think the pharmacy is over there, so they should be that way."

                Her guess is correct, and box in hand, we return to check-out.

                Only to find that all self check-out machines are broken.

                So we go to the nearest register, which is being manned by some middle-aged woman who gives us a judgmental look at the sight of our single purchase. This is why I hate to buy condoms; checkers always seem to look down on you for having safe sex.

                As she's scanning the box, my phone rings. I scramble for it, fully prepared to check the caller ID and promptly send whoever it is to voicemail. But at the sight of the name, I smile. "Oh, it's my sister! Do you mind?"

                Catherine smiles and gestures me on. "Go ahead."

                "Jenna, hi!"

                "Morning, David! I've called for two reasons."

                Neither of which is simply to say 'hello', I'm sure. Never calls unless she wants something from me… "Okay. What is it?" I try not to meet the cashier's gaze as I hand over the money.

                "Well, first of all I wanted to remind you that I'm flying in on Friday night."

                God, that's soon. I'd nearly forgotten that she was coming at all. "Like you needed to remind me. I'm so excited to see you."

                "Liar, but it's sweet of you to say so."

                "Alright, alright. What's your other reason?" I take my change from the cashier, still not looking her in the eye. Catherine grabs the bag and links her arm in mine as we stroll toward the exit.

                "I wanna hear about this Catherine chick you're sleeping with."

                I stop in my tracks. "You want to hear about _what_?" Catherine frowns at me, curious, and I quickly add, "I have a friend named Catherine, but I'm not sleeping with her. How did you hear about her, anyway? Have you been talking to Arthur again? You know I hate it when you two talk."

                Catherine snickers and pulls me along, muttering, "I'm so hurt that you haven't told your sister about me." I raise my eyebrows at her but say nothing.

                "Yes, he told on you. The whole story was a bit jumbled and convoluted and I got a bit bored around the middle but what I got out of it was that you're crazy about this girl named Catherine."

                "I'm not gaga about her…" I keep my eyes focused ahead of me because I don't want to see Catherine's face. "We're friends. We're friendly. There isn't anything else going on."

                "Liar! I want to meet her when I'm there."

                The prospect of this is terrifying. "No. No way. I'm not putting you two in a room together."

                Next to me, Catherine tugs on my arm. "I want to meet your sister! We can all go out and have dinner, it would be great."

                I mouth a fervent _no_ and shake my head, but on the other end of the line, Jenna says, "You can't fight it, Arthur said he'll talk to Matt. And he said Matt's dating this girl's sister? I don't know, I can't keep up. In any case, apparently they're taking care of it."

                "I would like the record to show that I'm against this."

                "Doesn't matter, because I want to meet your girlfriend."

                "She's not my girlfriend!" Unfortunately. She should be. I would not be opposed to it. But instead, I'm just the guy friend she's having sex with.

                "Well, whatever she is, then. Arthur says that she's lovely, so I'd like to get to know her. And y'know, if you end up dating her and falling in love and getting married, then I'm ahead of the game."

                I sigh, exasperated. "Jenna, may I go now?"

                "Oh, go on then. I'll call you when I'm boarding the plane, and if you're not at the airport to pick me up I will cry."

                "I'll be there."

                "Great. Love you."

                "Love you too."

                Catherine clings to me more tightly on the way back to her apartment, and we walk in silence for some time before she says, casually, "So your sister called me your girlfriend. And said that you're sleeping with me."

                "That she did."

                "And she wants to meet me."

                "Yes, she does."

                "Can I meet her? I'd like to meet her."

                I glance down at her cautiously. "It's going to happen, I think, whether I agree with it or not, so yes, of course you can meet her."

                Quite frankly, I do think that Jenna and Catherine will get along splendidly; the more time I spend with Catherine, the more certain of that I become. But I don't want to be in the same room as them when it happens. Because Jenna will do some weird mind-reading thing on me and then she will manage to extract all this information about everything that's happened between me and Catherine and then where will I be?

                God, my sister cannot meet Catherine.


	17. Chapter 16: Catherine

                "Do you have any eights?"

                "Nope, go fish."

                I groan and grab another card from the pile, but grin in delight when I see the number. "Aha!" I slam the two eights onto the floor beside my other pairs. "I win."

                "You don't win because you finish first, you win based on how many pairs you have!" David examines his own cards, then looks at mine, and when he realizes that I've got two more pairs than he has, his brow furrows in frustration. "Ah. Very well then, I guess you do win."

                I resist the urge to poke fun at him for pouting over a loss in Go Fish. "I do, yeah. But you can have a consolation prize if you like."

                "I'm a big fan of consolation prizes."

                Of course he is. I could have probably guessed as much. I crawl across the floor, over the cards, and kiss him gently. His hand goes to the nape of my neck and he pulls me closer, trying to deepen the kiss, but instead I stop him. "I said a consolation prize, David. Perhaps you'd get more if you had won."

                David pouts and fingers at one of my bra straps. "But you won," he points out. "You deserve something for that."

                "How about something to eat that isn't shaped like a dinosaur?" I only tease, of course. I think it's rather precious that David actually owns a dinosaur sandwich cutter, and I was surprised by how much a peanut butter and jelly sandwich really hit the spot when we ate lunch this afternoon. But as it's nearing dinner time, I'm getting hungry. 

                “So now would be a bad time to tell you that I bought dinosaur tofu nuggets?”

                My eyes widen. “Those _exist_?” Dinosaur-shaped food no longer sounds so bad.

                But David chuckles and shakes his head. “No, they don’t. Or if they do, I don’t know of them. I’ll start on dinner, though.” He jumps up and reaches out his hands to pull me up as well; I take them gratefully. When we are both standing upright, he kisses me again, smiling against my lips and this time it’s him who pulls away.

                Since returning from Jewel with David, the entirety of this day has been absolutely, completely, one hundred percent perfect. I can’t remember the last time that I felt so content. As of now, we have not yet met David’s goal of having sex on every flat surface in my apartment, although I am about eighty percent certain that was a joke. But our day has consisted primarily of sex and food consumption, with breaks for one or two diversions--such as our most recent game of Go Fish.

                When we walked in the door, we promptly divested each other of all clothing, and since then, neither of us has bothered to put on more than undergarments.

                While David is cooking, I decide to go in search of Leo, who is still hiding. I think David is fairly skeptical about Leo’s very existence, because were it not for the litter box and food and water bowls, there seems to be absolutely no sign of him.

                Finally, I find him lurking under my bed. I drag him out and pick him up, then carry him into the living room.

                I curl up on the couch and hold Leo tight. He promptly curls up and rests his head on my chest, and I giggle. “David, you’re not the only one in this house who’s fixated on my breasts.”

                He peers through the doorway, and at the sight of the cat in my arms, he grins. “Oh, so it’s not a phantom kitty! You really had me wondering. Do you think he would agree to trade places so that he can cook our dinner and I can cuddle with you?”

                “Doubtful. And in any case, it’s probably unwise to put him in charge of a stove.”

                “I don’t see why, but if you insist…” He looks unabashedly disappointed. Disappointed that I don’t think a cat should be cooking our dinner. To think that this is the guy I’m…

                Well, I don’t know what I am. I couldn’t put a finger on what we are if I tried. And throughout the day, to myself, I’ve been trying. I’m quite intent on figuring it out, but so far, I’m stuck. Because he’s not my boyfriend, and I’m not in love. At least, I’m relatively sure I’m not in love; I don’t feel for him like I feel for Twig, so it couldn’t be love.

                I turn on the television to watch while he’s cooking. After what seems like forever, he emerges from the kitchen with two plates—pesto. I grin and sit up in anticipation, and Leo falls away onto the couch with a dissatisfied mew. David pushes him away even further so that he can sit next to me.

                “What are we watching this evening?” he asks.

                “I’m not sure, I just saw attractive men with British accents and decided to stop because I figured you might be interested. Also, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

                David looks at the screen for what seems like less than a second before elbowing me excitedly and saying, “You picked Merlin! This is marvelous. Although I don’t know how to feel about the fact that you thought I’d want to watch a show with attractive men with British accents.”

                “The British accents are your thing. The attractive men are so I can have something nice to look at.”

                As the full force of that sentence hits him, his jaw drops and he stares at me, appalled. “’So you can have something nice to look at’… I see. I understand. Well, I’ll just sit here and play with your cat, I suppose… Leo, I mean.” He puts his plate down on the coffee table and picks Leo up off the couch, hugging him tightly. He’s lucky that Leo is such an indifferent cat—as long as he’s being petted, he’s happy. Most other cats would have scratched David up something fierce. “Why’d you name him Leo, anyway?”

                “It’s my mother’s Zodiac sign.”

                “ _Zodiac sign_? Please tell me you’re fucking with me. Please.”

                I nod. “Yes, I am fucking with you, but I’m perfectly serious about the Zodiac sign thing. She got pneumonia right around the time that I got Leo, and for a while it was pretty bad. I thought naming him that might improve her chances. And she’s still here, which means—”

                “—absolutely nothing.” David interrupts. “I can’t believe you’re serious about this. You’re making me want to cry. Why does a girl as perfect as you have to be superstitious?”

                “Spoken like a typical Aries.” I try not to react to the comment about perfection. That’s a word that hasn’t slipped out of his mouth about me since the night we first slept together, and I get the feeling that he avoided it intentionally.

                He scoffs and makes no response, instead focusing on the television. “Zodiac sign,” he mutters a few minutes later. All the while stroking Leo behind the ears.

                I don’t pay very close attention to the show, not when I realize how invested David seems to be. So instead, I watch his reactions. It doesn’t take me long to also come to the realization that he’s already seen the episode. But his knowledge of what’s going to happen doesn’t diminish his enthusiasm about it now. Or, if it does, then I can’t imagine how worked up he must have gotten the first time.

                Eventually, David notices my scrutiny, and he frowns. “What? What is it?”

                “How do you even exist?”

                It seems that he doesn’t know how to take this remark, and I can’t blame him. “I don’t know… How do any of us even exist?”

                I laugh and shake my head. “No, that’s not what I mean. You’re just strange, is all.” He still looks worried, so I quickly add, “Not bad, strange. Just… I’ve never known someone who gets as enthusiastic as you, strange.”

                “Life is boring if you don’t dive into everything you like wholeheartedly.”

                Now he’s looking at me with intense eyes and I suddenly don’t feel like we’re talking about television anymore so I quickly look away.

                Merlin ends and some other show starts up but by this point, David has just about finished eating and he no longer seems interested in what’s on television. Leo has fallen asleep on him, but David picks him up and drops him unceremoniously onto the floor. “God, I’m tired,” he says with a dramatic yawn. “Perhaps I should just make an early night of it and go to bed now. You could always join me.”

                “You must not be very tired, if you’re asking me to come along.”

                “Well, it’s a precautionary measure. I know I’ll be tired at some point, so I might as well be in bed in preparation of the inevitable onslaught of exhaustion that will overcome me at some point tonight.”

                I giggle. “How very practical of you. Why on earth did that thought not occur to me?”

                “Maybe I just think ahead.”

                I beg to disagree. The fact that we’re currently in this position should be enough of an indication that neither of us bothers to think ahead. Because if we did, if we took the time to think through all possible consequences for sleeping together countless times, maybe we wouldn’t be doing it.

                “I agree that going to bed sounds like a good idea. But I fancy a bath first.”

                I’m halfway down the hall before I realize that he isn’t following me, and I return to the living room to add, “Stop pouting, my intention was for you to come and join me.”

                “Oh!” David jumps up and he’s grinning, now. I roll my eyes.

                I’ve never really liked shower sex much. Twig has always been very enthusiastic about it, but like most people I’ve dated, I think he fails to recognize that there’s a component to shower sex outside of the actual sex. So whenever possible, I avoid taking showers with men.

                But the anticipation of just settling into the bath tub with David makes me giddy. We sit perched on the edge of the tub together as it fills, splashing each other with water.

                He helps me in, and together we slip into the steaming water. I lean into him and he puts his arms around me, hands resting on my stomach. For the longest time, we sit. It’s heavenly. I doze with my head in the crook of his neck, and he presses periodic kisses to my temple.

                “I had every intention of actually washing myself,” I murmur. Eyes half-closed, nearly overwhelmed by the daunting task of lifting my arm and reaching two feet to grab the soap.

                “By all means, allow me to oblige,” he whispers. And he does reach those two feet. He dips the soap into the water, rubs the damp bar between his hands. “Top first, yeah?”

                He begins at my shoulders, then down and back up my arms. Across my clavicle, down my chest—he lingers a bit long until I say, “I think my breasts are thoroughly cleaned now, dear, you can keep going,” at which points he laughs lightly into my ear.

                “Next, bottom.” He pauses. “Catherine, I don’t think I can reach all the way to your feet. I hope your body doesn’t feel unevenly loved.”

                I try not to dwell on that word. “I think that I’ll be able to cope if you just, y’know, go as far as you can reach.”

                “As far as I can reach. Alright. Good.”

                David’s fingers dip underwater, rub across my stomach, down past my hips and to my thighs… outer thighs first, then one hand, so slowly, begins to slide across my skin. I hold my breath, but he pauses at my inner thigh, waiting for some sign and I don’t know what it is that he wants to hear.

                “I think you can reach farther than that, David.”

                “Oh?” He kisses my neck gently, and I feel the smile playing on his lips.

                “Mhm.” Now he’s using his forefinger to draw slow circles on my thigh. I take a deep breath, then say, “I’d almost think that you delight in teasing me.”

                He laughs lightly, and the feel of his hot breath gives me goosebumps. “You did call me a tease this morning.”

                So I did. And as I recall, we were in a similar situation then. “It’s not exactly a badge of honor, being a tease.”

                “It is if I’m driving you mad.”

                He hasn’t even touched me yet, and I’m embarrassed by how breathless I am. As if he can read my mind, he whispers, “You’re looking flushed, Catherine. Have I mentioned I love it when you blush?”

                There’s that word again. “Yes, I think you have.”

                “Good. Because I do love it. I think you look stunning.”

                I open my mouth to reply, but before I can say anything, David finally moves his hand and instead, I let out a gasp. I part my legs further to give him better access and again, he laughs. “So enthusiastic.”

                “No need to sound so smug.”

                “What is it that makes you…” His finger hits a particularly sensitive knot of nerves and I writhe beneath his touch, releasing a loud moan. “Ah, that would be it.” David kisses my neck. “I like that noise, keep making that noise.”

                I wouldn’t be able to stop making “that noise” if I tried. Not with his fingers pressing into me and his mouth on my neck and—

                David pauses. “Must your phone always interrupt us?”

                I’m so far gone that I wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t said anything. But he did say something. I can hear it, faintly, and I sigh. We wait while it rings out, and finally it stops.

                 Only for David’s phone to start ringing only seconds later.

                “What the fuck?”

                “Maybe you should get it,” I say reluctantly, and I scoot forward to give him enough room to climb out of the tub. I take in the view as he shuffles out into the hall, calling after him, “You better march that fine ass back in here pronto to finish what you started.”

                “Yes ma’am!”

                While I wait for him to return, I rinse away any excess soap that remains from that fairly half-assed washing; I say that with the utmost reluctance, as his main intention was to turn me on, and in that respect it was very effective.

                After about a minute, David practically sprints back into the bathroom, grabbing a towel and tying it around his waist. “That was Matt. He and Karen heard about your awful cold and are coming over right now to check in on you.”

                “They’re _what_?” I scramble up, grabbing the other towel that he’s holding out for me. “Why did you agree to that?”

                “I didn’t! I told them that you were sleeping and that you probably shouldn’t be disturbed, but Karen apparently _really_ wants to drop off some soup and see how you’re doing.”

                Of course she does. Never cares about me when I’m actually sick, but the one time I pretend is when she wants to check in.

                We rush around the apartment, trying to clean up. David smacks my ass lightly as he breezes past me with our plates from dinner, and I almost call up Karen so that I can inform her that unfortunately, we are not taking visitors at this present time because I need to fuck David senseless.

                But I don’t. By the time Karen and Matt arrive, I have pulled on a clean set of pajamas and I am curled up in bed, a well-stocked box of tissues by my side and a bag of Halls on the bedside table.

                She comes in and sits on the edge of the bed. Matt peers in the doorway long enough to tell me that he’s, “sorry to hear that I’m sick, but that I better be well by Wednesday so that he doesn’t have to work the evening shift alone”. Then he retreats into the living room to, I assume, chat with David.

                Once he’s gone, Karen smiles sympathetically. “So disregarding Matt’s comment, how are you feeling, sis?”

                “Better than this morning. I spent a lot of the day in bed, y’know.” That bit, at least, is true, although I wasn’t doing much sleeping.

                She nods. “Yeah, sleep is important. And I see you took a bath.”

                I glance at my damp hair. Oh yes. My bath. “I did. Always cheers me up when I’m sick.”

                “Definitely, yeah.” A few moments silence, and then she frowns. “Are you okay? You seem on edge.”

                No shit, I’m on edge. David and I were in the bathtub and he was about to get me off when you ruined it. “Yeah, I’d only just nodded off to sleep when David came in and told me that you were coming, so I’m just… tired.”

                “Speaking of David, how’s that going, him staying here?”

                I try to ignore her smirk. “It’s fine. Nice to have him here so that I don’t have to make my own food and such.”

                “So that he can baby you, you mean.”

                “Not at all.”

                “Well, you’ve only got so much time left with the free trial before you have to decide whether you want to make the installation permanent. I hope you know that I’m rooting in his favor; I think the old model’s a bit defective.”

                I scowl and roll over on my side so that I’m facing away from her. “Thank you for stopping by, Karen. I’d really like to get some sleep, now.”

                “Jeez, testy…” The weight on the bed shifts as she stands. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I hope you feel better soon. And eat my soup! I followed Mom’s recipe.”

                Another few minutes pass, but finally, I hear the front door shut, and David comes to stand in my doorway. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well that was fun.”

                “Fun. Yeah.” Not the word I would have used, but alright. He watches me for a few seconds, waiting. Finally, I reach out a hand and gesture that he join me. “C’mon. If I recall correctly, when you ran to get that phone I made some comment along the lines of, ‘march that fine ass back in here to finish what you started.’”

                “Oh yes.” He grins. “What was it that I started, again?”

                “Don’t make me come over there.”

                “Or else what?”

                God, I can’t believe that cocky smirk. “Or else I’ll end up fucking you on the floor and that won’t be nearly as comfortable.”

                David walks toward me, already shedding the clothes that he was wearing for a grand total of ten minutes. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he crawls across the bed, and as he kisses me, I tell myself that Karen’s wrong, that this so-called “free trial” will last me forever.


	18. Chapter 17: David

                It’s nearing noon on Tuesday when I get a text from Arthur.

 

> Want to go out for lunch?

 

                I can’t help but find the text slightly disconcerting. Arthur and I don’t get together for lunch much these days, and when we do, it’s more often than not because he wants to have a serious conversation with me. But I haven’t seen him in days. I’ve only spoken with him once. I can’t imagine what he might want to discuss.

                There is the possibility that he just wants to see me, but that just doesn’t seem very likely.

                Despite my concerns, I agree, and we meet at a Mexican restaurant that we used to frequent, which is about halfway between our offices. When I arrive, he is already sitting at a table with a burrito in hand. I stand in line to order and every so often, I glance at him. He certainly looks at ease. Maybe this is just a friendly lunch after all.

                I sit down across from him and he smiles up at me. “Hi David. Long time no see.”

                “Yeah, it’s been ages. I don’t know how I’ve survived.”

                “Hey now, don’t you start getting all mushy on me.”

                Me, getting ‘mushy’? I think back to our bizarre drive out to Midway, and his dramatics. If that’s not ‘mushy’, then I don’t know what is. But I’m not in the mood to argue with him, so I let it go and ask, “Why exactly did you want to see me, Arthur? We’re moving back in tomorrow, so what is it that couldn’t wait until then?”

                “That’s it exactly, actually. Our heat’s back up and running, so we can move back in tonight.”

                I nearly choke on a bite of food, and begin coughing profusely. When I can finally get words out, I manage to say, “That’s good to hear.”

                It’s fucking awful to hear. I don’t want to move back in yet. I can’t move back in yet. Catherine and I were supposed to play strip poker tonight, and I can’t move back in yet.

                He nods, but he’s looking at me warily. “I thought you might say so.”

                “Why do you say it like that?”

                For a moment, I think Arthur’s just going to shake his head and wave it off. But he puts down his burrito and leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. Oh God, this is going to be something serious. “I know something,” he says slowly. “And I haven’t told anybody what I know because I wanted to check with you about what it was, first.”

                “Okay?”

                “I know that Catherine called in sick yesterday. And I know she told Alex that you would pick up some stuff for her on your way back from work.”

                It disturbs me, the detailed accounts of conversations that pass amongst our friends. “Yes. And that’s what happened.”

                Arthur shakes his head. “I stopped by your office yesterday and they told me that you called in sick, too.”

                Well fuck.

                I’m tempted to challenge him, to ask him why he was checking in on me in the first place, but to respond aggressively would solve nothing. It would make his suspicion—because I know precisely where he’s going with this, precisely what he’s suspecting—even more credible. The most reasonable thing to do would be to calmly contradict him.

                “Why, Arthur, are you suggesting—”

                “Yes.” He raises his eyebrows. “Is something happening that you’re keeping from us? I wouldn’t blame you; it’s kind of outrageous how much we’re all scrutinizing you both. And it’s not like… I’m not judging you. And if you swear that nothing is going on, then I’ll believe you. I just want to know.”

                There is something to the idea of telling Arthur. I know if I asked him, he wouldn’t say anything to anyone else. I know that I would be able to provide me with some much needed third-party insight into the matter.

                But I also know that he would tell me that I’m crazy and that I’m setting myself up for a whole mess of hurt. In the most non-judgmental way you can do that, at least. And I don’t want to hear anything of the kind. So instead of opening up, I shake my head. “There’s nothing going on. I stayed in yesterday to keep an eye on her, but I thought that letting people know that would raise their suspicions a bit too much for my liking. I didn’t want to leave today, but she insisted.”

                That last bit is true. She practically had to force me into my clothes, which is nowhere near as fun as when she’s trying to get me out of them.

                “So there’s still nothing going on between you and Catherine?”

                “Nope. Nothing at all.”

                He nods thoughtfully. “Okay. Good to know. When you get back to her place tonight, do tell her that I hope she feels better.”

                When I get back to her place? “What do you mean? I thought you said that we can go home today.”

                “I did, but if she’s not feeling well, you can hardly leave her to fend for herself. I haven’t told Matt yet that our heating’s fixed, so I’ll stay with him another night and we can just move back in tomorrow. I think my presence is irritating Matt to no end, so I don’t mind postponing things in the slightest.”

                I fucking love Arthur. Not only essentially ordering me to go back to Catherine’s, but also staying at Matt’s for another day to make it seem more legitimate.

                Makes me almost wish that I had decided to be more honest with him.

                “That’s… that’s really thoughtful of you, dude. Thank you.”

                “Don’t mention it. And it’s for Catherine, anyway, not really for you.”

                “Yeah, of course, but she’s not here, so I figured I should say it for her.”

                Arthur smiles. “Fair enough. But now that we’ve got that cleared up, tell me how things are going. It’s not very often that we go so long without seeing one another.”

                What a strange world this is, that three days is a long time for us to spend apart. “It’s going. Y’know. I’ve just been spending a lot of time with Catherine. Nursing her back to health and… such. I’ve been cooking a lot.”

                “Charming her with domesticity, just like I said. Excellent.”

                “She made fun of me for my dinosaur sandwich cutter.”

                He gasps, appalled. “No! Not the dinosaur sandwich cutter! How dare she? Clearly she’s not who we thought she was.”

                I roll my eyes. “Laugh all you want, you know how I feel about my dinosaur sandwich cutter.”

                “Unfortunately, yes, I do. But somehow, I get the impression that all would be forgotten if she agreed to sleep with you.”

                Not true. I’m still slightly bitter about it. “You underestimate me, Arthur. Sex isn’t everything.”

                “And I’m so proud of you for saying so. It seems that you’ve really learned the true meaning of relationships. Is the true meaning of Christmas next on your list? Or are you doing the meaning of life next?”

                Again, I practically choke on a bite of food, but this time, it’s mostly because I’m appalled by the idiocy of his remark. “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

                He shrugs. “I thought of it, I had to say it. I’ve let you get away with some pretty lame jokes, just go with it, man.”

                “Fine, whatever.” At this precise moment, I’m so pleased with Arthur that I think he could murder somebody and I’d just help him hide the body. “But you gotta tell me about what’s going on in your life.”

                “Absolutely nothing. I live vicariously through you. So even though it’s disgusting to watch you and Catherine dance around each other, I kind of hope that the drama never stops or I’ll have to get into my own mess of a relationship. I’m not sure what can really beat this nonsense, though. Maybe if I started dating your sister—”

                “You will do no such thing!” Amendment to previous statement: I will let him get away with anything, and I will even help him hide a dead body, but I will under no circumstances agree to let him date my sister.

                He laughs and puts his hands up in surrender. “Joking, joking! Jenna’s got high standards, anyway, I’m not good enough for her. You know that. I just like winding you up.”

                “Yes, I do know that, unfortunately.” I pause. “I feel like we were just doing this a second ago.”

                “Sandwich cutter,” he supplies.

                “Ah yeah, that’s right.”

                We both sigh at our own redundancy, and spend a few minutes eating in silence.

                “Hey David?”

                “Yeah?”

                “I really hope that somehow things will work out between you two.”

                I’m so startled by this sentiment that I’m temporarily rendered speechless. “Wow. Thank you, Arthur. I, um… I hope so too.”

                “Though just so we’re clear, Catherine could so totally do better than you. But you’re a step up from the prick she’s with right now, so.”

                “Well, I will ignore that bit and just thank you again for the vote of confidence.”

                Arthur smiles jovially. “That’s what I’m here for.” He glances down at his phone. “I should be going… Don’t want to get in trouble with the boss man, now, do we?”

                “Certainly not. It was good to see you.”

                “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow. Give me a call and I can pick you up from Catherine’s so that you don’t have to lug your stuff onto the El.”

                “That sounds great. Thank you, man. Really.”

                He waves me off. “Don’t forget to tell Catherine that I hope she feels better.”

                I could still tell him. If I want. “Will do.”

                Arthur walks out of the restaurant, still entirely oblivious. I wish I weren’t such an asshole, lying to my best friend about something like this. I finish up my own meal and return to my office, still feeling rather guilty.

                Back at work, I can hardly focus, and I take off early because the sooner I get back, the sooner I can see Catherine again. I catch one of the earliest Purple line rush hour trains and hop on, ride until I have to switch over to the Brown line and make my way home. To my temporary home, at least.

                Walking from the El stop to Catherine’s apartment, it’s just my luck that it begins to snow. As though the fucking cold weren’t bad enough on its own.

                And so when I finally shuffle inside, I stand in the threshold of the apartment for some time, stamping snow away and brushing it out of my hair. “Honey, I’m home!” I call. Because who know when I’ll next be able to ironically say that to someone who isn’t Arthur.

                “Hi David! Karen and I are in the kitchen.”

                I deflate slightly. She said Karen. Why is Karen here? We can’t have any fun with Karen here. Although I am dismayed, once I shed my coat and shoes, I head into the kitchen to see them.

                At the sight of me, Karen lets out a noise of approval. “David! You clean up nice.”

                I look down at myself and shrug. “This is what I wear for work every day. I don’t like it much.”

                “Well, regardless of whether you like it, do you think you could give us a turn?” Karen smirks. “I’ve got this theory that I’d like to look into.”

                I shoot a look of exasperation Catherine’s way, but she just chuckles. “Go on, David, just one turn, for Karen’s inquisitive mind.”

                So I turn 360 degrees in place. When I look at Karen, she’s nodding thoughtfully. “Now d’you mind telling me what that was for, Karen?”

                “Oh, I’ve just got a theory that any man’s ass looks great in dress pants. Thanks for participating in my investigation.”

                Christ, she has got to go. Especially when I glance at Catherine again and see the way that she’s smirking at me. As I watch, her eyes travel across my whole figure, until finally she meets my gaze and nods slightly in approval. And she cannot look at me like that while her sister is sitting right there in the chair next to her.

                “Um, yeah, no problem,” I say slowly. “Dinner’s going to take a while, so I should probably get started on that now. Karen, should I make enough for you?”

                Please say no. Please say that you were just about to leave. Please say no.

                “Oh, yes please! You’re too kind.”

                I resist the urge to groan. “Alrighty then. Would you two mind moving into the living room? I like an uncluttered kitchen when I cook.”

                While they get up to leave, I begin to burrow through the fridge for ingredients. Karen departs, and I hear the television start up; but Catherine comes to stand behind me. I turn around to look at her and I’m startled by how close we’re standing.

                “I spent all day thinking about what I was going to do to you when I got home,” I mutter. Her eyes widen and she blushes deeply. “And then I come in to find you hanging out with your sister?”

                “Why’d you invite her to stay for dinner, then?” she whispers.

                “That was not me inviting her! I hoped she’d politely refuse the offer.”

                Catherine rolls her eyes. “Like Karen would turn down food. And to think that I nearly had her out the door when you came in.”

                I sigh. “I’m sorry.”

                “Nothing we can do about it now. Besides,” she grins. “How can I stay mad at you when your ass looks so great in those pants?”

                Before I can think of a reasonable retort, she has retreated to the living room to join her sister. I’m frustrated and disappointed, but I figure that hey, Karen can only stay for so long.

                One would think so, at least. But one would be wrong, because she’s still with us by the time it’s nearing 8 o’clock, long after we’ve finished eating. I keep glancing at Catherine, trying to push her into action, but she doesn’t seem to know what to do.

                Finally, Catherine lets loose a dramatic yawn. “God, I’m exhausted.”

                “Oh! It’s gotten so late, hasn’t it? I didn’t even notice, I was enjoying your company so much.”

                I cannot honestly say that I relate.

                “Don’t worry about it,” Catherine says carefully. “Although now that you mention it, it probably is about time that I get to bed, since I need to work tomorrow…”

                “Yeah, sure, of course! I understand. I’ll get out of your hair. David, thanks for keeping an eye on my sister.”

                “Trust me, I’ll gladly keep an eye on her,” I say with a smile. Catherine elbows me in the side. And I thought I was being so subtle.

                Even when Karen realizes that she really should be going, it’s astonishing how long it takes her to finally get up off the couch and pull her coat on. “I’m glad to see that you’re feeling a bit better, Catherine. And Matt will be glad to see you tomorrow, I’m sure. And think about what we discussed, okay?”

                “I will…” Catherine mutters.

                “Get home safe!” I call. I wonder, for just a moment, what they might have discussed. But as soon as Karen’s out the door, Catherine is kissing me, and suddenly I couldn’t care less.


	19. Chapter 18: Catherine

            Breakfast the next morning is a quiet affair. David looks rather bleary-eyed, and I feel the same way—staying awake until almost 4am, although it seemed like a good idea at the time, was… not a good idea. I have every intention of returning to bed once he leaves, but when his alarm went off this morning, I felt the need to get up and join him.

                I keep expecting him to bring up the fact that it’s Wednesday. That he’s returning home this evening. He’s going to ask me, ‘What happens next?’ And it’s not until now, sitting across from him and waiting for the inevitable question, that I realize I don’t know what to say.

On Sunday evening, I told him that things would go back to normal once he was gone. And then everything sort of just… went on hold. When Karen was over yesterday, she asked me about Twig and I realized that I still hadn’t called him back. She told me that our dad was doing better and I realized that I hadn’t even _thought_ of him, hadn’t even worried.

I’ve kept myself in such a blissfully happy bubble, under the assumption that as of today, regardless of what’s transpired, things would ultimately go on as they were.

But now that I find myself faced with the actual moment, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want things to go on as they were. How can I express that to David when he brings it up?

                If he… ever brings it up, because at the moment he’s not saying much of anything. He’s just eating his omelet and perusing the newspaper.

                We both eat. I watch him warily, and minutes of silence pass us by, until finally I come to the conclusion that I’ve got no choice but to breach the subject myself.

                “So you’re going home today.”

                David looks up from the newspaper and to me, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, I am.”

                I wait for him to continue, but he says nothing else. What a moment to turn into the silent and brooding type. “Yeah. And so don’t you think we should… y’know, discuss… this? What’s happened between us? Or… something?”

                “What is there to discuss? Regardless of what comes out of my mouth, you’ve got the final say. I don’t know why you even bother to give me a vote in the first place. You know what I want, and I know you’re not going to give it to me. We’re both adults here, Catherine, so can we not pretend?”

                For a few moments, I’m speechless. I’m speechless because he’s so resigned to what he perceives as inevitable, and I don’t know how to tell him that I’m questioning things without giving him far, far too much hope.

                “I’m not… I’m not pretending, David. I want…”

                “You want what?”

                I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t know what I want.”

                He grimaces. “I’ve noticed.” After taking a final bite of his omelet, David stands, and straightens his suit jacket. “I have to go to work. Arthur and I are picking up my stuff this evening, so if you don’t mind, I’ll hang on to your spare keys until then.”

                “Yeah, sure, go ahead.” Is this seriously it? I need to think of something to say. Anything. Just so long as it gives him pause. When he’s almost to the doorway, I say, “See you on Friday.”

                That certainly does give him pause. He falters and turns around to look at me. “What’s Friday?”

                “Karen told me yesterday that Friday’s when we’re having our dinner with your sister.”

                “Oh. Okay. Yeah. Friday, then.”

                I sit at the table and listen as, in the other room, David pulls on his coat. He opens the door, and there’s a prolonged moment where he hesitates before I hear it shut. Is he gone? I get up and take shaky steps to the doorway, peer in…

                He’s leaning against the door, staring at his feet. When I inch forward, he must hear me, because he looks up and beckons me over. “C’mere, Cath.”

                I let out a sigh of relief and rush to him. David promptly envelopes me into his arms and I bury my face into his chest.

                “I can’t be mad at you,” he murmurs.

                “You should be.”

                “No, I’m just as guilty as you are.”

                Doesn’t make me feel like any less of an asshole. “David…” I pull away enough so that I can look up at him, look him in the eye. “On Sunday, when I said—”

                He shakes his head. “Please don’t. I didn’t want to leave on bad terms, but… I mean it when I say that I don’t want to discuss this. I just can’t do it, okay?”

                Well, what can I really say in response to that? Because we should talk about it. If we don’t, it seems to me that it can’t end well. But I have absolutely no right to push him, either, not when I’m the one who’s in love with another man. At least, I think I’m in love with the other man. I don’t know anymore. I don’t feel like I know much of anything. I just know that I want to keep David happy, and if letting it go will make him happy, I’m going to let it go. “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

                Can I kiss him goodbye? Am I allowed?

                Probably not.

                He smiles slightly and for a second I wonder if he _is_ going to lean in and kiss me just once more. But he doesn’t. “So, on Friday, then.”

                “Friday.”

                Once he leaves, there’s no way that I can sleep, but I’m not sure how to pass so much time—usually, if I’m working an evening shift, I sleep in until nearly noon, and it’s not even 7:30. I toy with the idea of actually trying to get back to Twig, but after just parting with David, calling Twig seems wrong somehow. I have to call him before I leave for work, though. Because I know that I need to break out of my happy little bubble, remember the real world.

                In the meantime, I finally decide to look over a piece that I wrote for this Saturday, for a comedic literary reading that I’m participating in. I’ve never done something of the kind before, but I thought that it might be nice to step out of my comfort zone. I chose to write about a particularly awkward dance I shared with my crush of the time at my high school prom. When I first came up with it and wrote it down, I thought it was funny, but rereading it now, I’m disgusted. My jokes are obvious and nowhere near as funny as I make them out to be. There’s no way I can go up in front of people and read this dreck.

                So I scan my brain, trying to think of a good story to tell. But I can’t think; I just keep looking back on last night, remembering the lovely game of strip poker I played with David.

                Well, I could just take the opportunity to talk about David. That’s an idea.

                I wonder what I could say. What with the type of audience I’m to expect, there’s so much about my situation that I cannot mention—particularly that… particularly that I’ve cheated on Twig.

                Yet another piece of information that didn’t occur to me while I was in that happy little bubble these past few days. I’m no better, now, than what I’ve imagined of Twig. I think of all the rude things that I’ve said about him, and I hate myself because that’s me now. Now that I’ve cheated. And what do I have to show for it?

                Just self-doubt. Just no confidence whatsoever in what it is that I want anymore.

                Yeah, it shouldn’t be so hard to turn that into something humorous to read on Saturday evening. Shouldn’t be hard at all.

                The morning drains away as I brainstorm for, write and then perfect this new piece, where I talk all about sleeping with my best friend.

                It occurs to me that I can’t use Karen as my test audience, as I always do. Not unless I want to disclose to her everything that’s happened to me and David since the first night we slept together (and I don’t particularly want to do that). If I want to use this, I’ll have to simply trust my own sense of humor.

                But once I’ve gotten it all down, I feel fairly confident saying that it’s one of the best things I’ve come up with in recent memory.

                With that done, I have nothing else to while away the day until I have to head to work. I try to read but I can’t focus. Watching television is an equally unsuccessful endeavor. I’m finding it increasingly difficult to ignore everything that I’ve been pushing away for the past few days. Weeks. Months. Since before the day I met David, even. I think of all the decisions that I’ve made since that day, and I feel the weight of it all, closing in on me.

                I can’t remember precisely when the thought first occurred to me that Twig might be cheating. It was right around the same time as my first encounter with David at Finders Keepers; that was when Twig ignored my calls for two weeks. And since then, the thought’s been there in the back of my mind, spreading like a plague.

                Maybe I should have broken up with him as soon as I first considered the possibility. I certainly haven’t trusted him since, not fully, and I always used to tell myself that I shouldn’t be in a relationship with someone I don’t trust. But I’ve become so attached to him that the thought of letting him go is unimaginable.

                Now, though, there’s a part of me that _wants_ to let go. That’s something new.

                I was so unhappy before Twig came along. And I think I’ve always figured that by breaking up with him, I’d go back to that.

                But perhaps not. It’s been days since I last talked to him and I’ve been happier than ever. I think of how offended he’ll be when I do call him and the thought makes me a little sick to my stomach. He explained away two weeks of radio silence with, “I was swamped at work,” but from me, four days without a call will be an outrage.

                Although I resolved to call Twig before I left, I choose not to. When I arrive at the Daily Grind, I’m still filled with a bizarre sense of rebellion and pride. At the sight of me, Matt frowns. “Why are you looking so pleased? Are you that glad to be rid of David?”

                “Oh, no, of course not.” I blush. “I’m just… happy. Can’t I be happy?”

                He looks suspicious. “Generally people have a reason, but alright. Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

                Ah yes. I forgot about my sickness masquerade. “Yeah, David really lifted my spirits.”

                “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Alex emerges from the storage room with a box under her arm. Matt suppresses a laugh.

                I bite my lip and look away, directing the entirety of my attention to my apron as I pull it on. “You’re funny, Alex. I didn’t expect to see you here; I thought you weren’t working today.”

                “I wasn’t. Until Freema called in. Now she’s the one playing sick.”

                “Playing? I wasn’t playing sick. I barely got out of bed on Monday.” Ah, the joys of half-truths.

                Alex chuckles. “I don’t doubt that.” She points a finger at Matt and declares, “So help me, if you call in any time soon, I will send someone to check in on you to make sure that you’re actually ill.”

                “Like you sent Matt and Karen to check in on me?”

                She looks genuinely surprised. “They paid you a visit? Really?”

                We both turn to look at Matt, who shrugs. “It was Karen’s idea. But if it makes you feel better, Alex, she seemed sick to me.”

                “You’ll pardon me if I remain skeptical.”

                I am relieved when a customer comes up to the counter so that I have to turn away from the conversation and take her order. Alex doesn’t press any further, although more than once, I catch her watching me closely. I don’t even know what it is that she expects of me. Perhaps she thinks I’ll confess to my indiscretion if she stares at me long enough. But I don’t budge. For all she knows, she’s just being overly suspicious about nothing.

                As the evening wears on, David’s and my late night begins to get to me, and Matt notices. In a slow moment, Alex excuses herself to run to the restroom, and Matt takes the moment to say, “That’s the tenth time you’ve yawned in the past five minutes, Catherine.”

                I stifle another one, although now that he’s mentioned it, I am desperate to yawn again. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

                He nods. “Yeah. Had a late night, I s’pose?”

                “Yeah, I spent most of the night tossing and turning.” Now Matt’s the one looking at me like I said something funny. “What, what did I say?”

                “Dunno, I’m just wondering…” He shakes his head. “Nah, he’d tell us.”

                I try to remain composed. “Why do you say _he’d_ tell you? Why wouldn’t I tell you? Not that anything has happened, of course, so it’s a moot point. But… why?”

                Matt smirks. “David can’t keep a secret to save his life. And especially if anything happened with you? He’d shout about you from the rooftops. Everyone would know. Arthur. Your sister. Alex. The stranger sitting at that table over there.” He points to a man sitting by the window, working on a computer. “If something had happened, we would know.”

                “Oh,” I say, as lightly as I can manage.

                “Yeah. Besides which, you still have a boyfriend. And you’re not the type to sleep with another guy if you’re in a relationship.”

                “Right. Exactly.”

                Either Matt doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does, or I’ve behaved rather out of character as of late. I’m not even sure I know which one it is.

                Alex returns and asks why we’re both just standing around, asks if we’ve got something more important we’d rather be doing.

                Not me. I think of my empty apartment. Well, not necessarily empty. Perhaps David is there right now, picking up his belongings. Vacating the premises so that by the time I return, it’ll be like he’d never been in the first place.

                Before, living on my own felt so satisfying. Now, the prospect of returning to an apartment devoid of David just fills me with dread.

                I yawn my way through work, with Matt occasionally giving me questioning looks. Doesn’t seem to be entirely convinced about the quality of my character, I suppose. Still wondering if David’s better at keeping secrets than he lets on, I suppose.

                Obviously he has every reason to be suspicious, but I ignore him and focus on the customers. I try not to think about how lonely my apartment is going to be. I try not to think about the fact that I’ve cheated on my boyfriend. I try not to think about my sudden inclination to sever ties with said boyfriend.

                God, I’ve got an awful lot to not think about.

                I think about it anyway.

                I think that I would have given anything for David to find an excuse to remain at my apartment. I think that I regret cheating, but not for the right reasons. I think that my urge to break up with Twig has also come about for the wrong reasons.

                “Catherine!” Alex brings me out of a daze. I glance at my watch, see that there’s about an hour left until closing.

                I smile uncomfortably. “Yeah?”

                “I think it’s about time you went home and got some sleep. You seem pretty out of it. Maybe you haven’t recovered all the way yet.”

                “Maybe… But still, I mean… I feel bad just bailing. Are you sure…”

                She points to the door. “Completely. Go home. Sleep.”

                I glance at Matt, wondering whether he might protest, but he does not, so I thank Alex and rush out.

                I almost miss my stop on the El. Not that it would matter much. It would mean I’d get to put off going home to that empty, deserted, lonely apartment.

                The whole place is dark when I let myself in. In spite of myself, I glance into the guest bedroom; it’s entirely abandoned, as I knew it would be. David only slept in there for a fraction of Saturday night, but the sheets are folded and neatly placed in a pile on top of the mattress, which makes me assume that he still must have run them through the washer and dryer.

                He left the spare set of keys on the kitchen table, beside a note: _Hope you had a good day. Thought you might come home hungry, so I made you some soup and put it in the fridge. Thanks for being a marvelous hostess; I’d definitely give this resort five stars for the stellar customer service. See you Friday. David xx_

                The note nearly brings me to tears. At the same time, I can’t help but giggle. I wonder how long David’s been hanging on to the comment about customer service.


	20. Chapter 19: David

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At one point in time, this was going to be chapter 7. I wrote about half of the chapter before I decided that the tone seemed to suit the later part of the storyline, and I've been pushing it back and back until finally now we've gotten to it. A large part of the first half is intact from what it initially was. 
> 
> So that's why I'm updating so quickly.
> 
> The fact that Merve and Bee both asked me to write faster also helped to motivate.

                I am in a car with Matt, Jenna and Arthur. On our way to pick up Karen and Catherine for dinner. For a triple date.

                The very thought of it is enough to make me feel like I might vomit. Or faint.

                "So before I meet this girl, can you please explain to me just one more time what the situation is?"

                I remain tight-lipped, and am becoming increasingly exasperated—unfortunately, Matt is far too eager to, once again, provide her with all of the gory details. Perhaps it might also be worth noting that Matt is much of the reason that this little dinner became a reality, due to his ability to coordinate with Karen.

                All in all I'm not particularly fond of him at the moment.

                "They met; David's head-over-heels; we _think_ Catherine's also head-over-heels, or at least Karen says she is; Catherine has boyfriend and refuses to break up with boyfriend; Catherine and David flirt and basically act like they're dating even though they're not. But he wants to be and refuses to admit it. Does that about cover it, Arthur?" he asks, peering back at Arthur in the rear view mirror.

                "Yeah man, that sums it up pretty nicely. The two of us and Karen have got a pool going on how long it'll take them to fuck, so once you've gotten a chance to observe them objectively, feel free to get in on that."

                I turn around to stare at Arthur, suddenly feeling alarmed. "You _what_?"

                "We're betting on how long it'll take you to have sex. Matt thinks it'll be before Christmas, Karen thinks in January."

                “And what about you?”

                He waves me off. “I've already lost. I said it'd happen before Black Friday.”

                Urge to vomit rising. I stare blankly in front of us and tune out the rest of the conversation. Arthur doesn't even understand what he's just said. He doesn't know that he was right.

                When we reach Catherine's apartment, she and Karen are already standing outside, waiting.

                "Alright David, you're gonna have to move."

                "I… what? Why? I always sit shotgun!"

                Matt shakes his head. "You _did_ always sit shotgun. Unfortunately, in the case of shotgun, bros do not come before hoes. So scoot."

                I glare at Karen as I hop out of the car, but she just seems to be amused. The other four of us are forced to squeeze into the back seat, with Jenna sitting half on Arthur's lap, and half on mine.

                "I think the last time I rode in a car with this many people, smart phones didn't exist," I declare snidely.

                Catherine is the only one who doesn't ignore me. She leans over and whispers, "Are you okay? This might well be the longest you've gone without smiling… ever."

                I want to tell her that I'm completely fine, but I know she won't believe it. At the same time, I can't tell her why I'm so bothered, so I just sigh and say that, "I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. It's no big deal."

                She can definitely tell that it _is_ a big deal, but she doesn't push it. Still, though, I can practically see her filing the thought away to question me about it later.

                We reach the restaurant in good time, and file inside. Jenna and Karen have already gotten to know each other, it seems—at least enough that they insist on whispering conspiratorially together. I roll my eyes. I don't understand why my presence was necessary here, not if Jenna is going to spend the entire night giggling with Karen. Who, I muse, isn't even the “special girl” that Jenna thinks I have. Not that I have one, of course. There is no girl, certainly no special girl. But if there were, it wouldn't be Karen.

                Once we are seated, though, Jenna does pull Catherine into conversation.

                “So Catherine, I hear you do some stand-up comedy.”

                Immediately, she is a deer in the headlights. “I... yeah, sometimes.”

                “Any chance you're doing one while I'm in town? I'd love to see it. Like, you seem a bit timid right now, but my guess is that at least part of that can be attributed to me being David's sister and all. I bet you totally own the stage.”

                Yes. I bet she does. I wouldn't know, of course, since she still refuses to give me a chance to see her. But still, I've no doubt that she becomes a completely different person in front of a crowd. God, do I want to see that.

                “I do alright, I suppose.” I notice that she avoids saying anything about Jenna coming to see a performance.

                Karen seems to notice too. “Oh, Catherine, didn’t you tell me that you’re doing some reading tomorrow night? It would be such a blast if we all went.”

                Catherine stares at her sister, and I can only describe the look in her eyes as sheer terror. “The reading tomorrow?” Her eyes drift to me before snapping back to Karen. What is she looking at me for? “Tomorrow’s not going to be anything special, it’d probably only be a disappointment…”

                “Oh, don’t say that! I’m sure you must be exaggerating. You're a woman in stand-up comedy. That's hard work.”

                Catherine glances between me and Jenna. “I'm beginning to see how you two are related. That's exactly what he said, too.”

                “Probably got it from me. I like to think that I rub off on him, just like a good sister should.”

                Both of them giggle, and I don't understand why the remark was so amusing. I wonder why I was worried about Jenna chatting with Karen; clearly that's not worth my concern, not compared with this.

                I stare down at my menu while everyone chatters around me. Once the waitress has come and taken our orders, I can't stare at the menu, so I grab a dinner roll from the basket and start picking at it, letting it crumble onto my plate.

                Arthur's words won't stop echoing in my head. _I said it would happen before Black Friday_. Where the fuck did he even pull that from? How the fuck was he _right_?

                You wouldn't know he was right, though, not from the looks of us. You wouldn’t know that we spent much of the past week living together, and, more importantly, sleeping together. Maybe some people would try to claim that they “felt something was off” if I were to tell them the truth. But our friends have got no idea that Catherine and I slept together, they haven't got that _feeling_ that something is off. And frankly, that pisses me off. No matter how much I want to see Catherine happy, the more I let myself think about it, the more my own happiness is beginning to take precedence.

                I try not to think about it. Because then I feel like an asshole.

                But she's ignoring what I want, and that pisses me off. I firmly believe that she's so fucking stubborn that she refuses to acknowledge that she doesn't actually want what she's currently fighting so hard to hold onto.

                I feel eyes on me. An upward glance and I see that Catherine is watching very closely as I decimate the unfortunate dinner roll. She raises her eyebrows quizzically, but again, I wave her off.

                While I suffer in silence, Jenna is having the time of her life surrounded by my friends. She's always loved a crowd, my sister, and I watch her with a small smile as she giggles over some story that Matt's in the process of relaying. Arthur is in the middle of a debate with Karen about some matter or another, and Jenna reaches over and grabs his glass of wine to steal a sip. Unfortunately for her, he notices, and there's a slight scuffle as Arthur attempts to retrieve the glass before Jenna can manage to drink. This attempt is unsuccessful, and she consumes half of the contents before returning it to him—this, it's quite clear, is purely to spite him.

                “God, David, control your sister.”

                Jenna scowls. “I'm almost 21, it so doesn't even count.”

                “Well, legally it counts for another two weeks, so pardon me if I don't want to get arrested for allowing a minor to drink my alcohol.”

                “You can have a sip of my drink if you like, Jenna,” Catherine offers, pushing her glass in front of me, toward my sister.

                Jenna looks between Catherine and the glass, skeptical. “That's just cranberry juice, though.”

                “I know it is, but it's very good cranberry juice.”

                “A very choice year,” I offer.

                Catherine looks to be startled by my sudden input into the conversation, but she quickly wipes that away with a smile. “Very much so. An exquisite year, in fact. A particular favorite of mine.”

                “Unexpired?” Matt asks.

                “Something like that, yeah.”

                Once our food comes, I am able to temporarily pull myself out of my daze. Mind you, I still don't particularly want to be stuck at this dinner, watching my sister try to bond with a girl who I am becoming increasingly certain I will never, ever get an actual chance to date.

                Not to be pessimistic.

                While we’re waiting on dessert, I excuse myself for a quick trip to the bathroom. When I emerge, I’m surprised to see Catherine leaning against the wall, waiting for me.

                “What are you doing?” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m whispering, because our table is on the other side of the restaurant, but something about the action of whispering just seems fitting under the circumstances.

                “You have to come up with an excuse for why you can’t come to the reading tomorrow.”

                I what? I don’t want to come up with an excuse; I’m thrilled by the idea. “Why?”

                “Because.” She crosses her arms and stares at a spot off behind me on the wall, rather than looking me in the eye. “In the thing that I’m planning on reading, I… talk about you. A bit.”

                “Oh.” At first, I can’t see what’s so bad about that. So she mentions me. Why should that prevent us from coming? And then I understand, and my eyes widen. “Wait, what do you plan to _say_?”

                She completely misinterprets my question. “Nothing bad, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

                “No, I don’t mean _will you be nice_. I mean, _how detailed will it be_?”

                Catherine’s expression is sufficient to tell me—it will be detailed enough. Detailed enough that if we want to keep our secret, a group field trip is out of the question.

                I feel like I’ve lost a grip on what it is that we’re even keeping secret. The entire drive consisted of jokes about how much she and I _want_ to have sex, jokes shamelessly made right in front of us. It’s frankly a miracle that they believe that we haven’t actually done it yet. Arthur attributes this to my inability to keep secrets and Catherine’s decency—“she’d never cheat,” he said.

                The secret isn’t even that we’re into each other at this point; it’s that I actually _can_ keep secrets and that Catherine… well, of course Catherine is still decent. She’s more than decent, she’s perfect. Still perfect. Her secret is just that she has the stomach to cheat after all.

                Perhaps because she’s cheating on a boyfriend who’s hardly a boyfriend in the first place.

                Maybe I should just refuse to interfere. Everyone should come and watch as she goes up on stage and discusses the convoluted mess that is our friendship or relationship or whatever the fuck I’m supposed to be thinking of it as these days.

                But she looks so desperate that I don’t have the heart to insist upon that. “Okay. I’ll try to convince Jenna that we should do something else instead, maybe invite them to join us just to be on the safe side.”

                “Oh God, thank you.” She flings her arms around me and gives me a hug, as well as a kiss on the cheek. I almost turn my head to kiss her full on, but I remember myself just in time. That can’t happen anymore.

                Catherine now goes into the bathroom while I return to the table, and although I expect someone to make a comment about our coinciding absence, no one does.

                “So Jenna, Arthur and I were talking about driving up to Wisconsin tomorrow to get our Christmas tree. Are you up for joining us?”

                Arthur gives me a puzzled look, because although we always do go to Wisconsin to cut down our own tree, we had no discussion about doing so this weekend. But he lets it go. I don’t deserve a friend like him.

                Jenna shrugs. “Sure, I suppose. As long as we can come back in time to see Catherine’s thing.”

                “Ah, see…” I wrack my brain for a plausible excuse. “Catherine was no doubt kind of embarrassed to say something, but she, y’know… doesn’t really like it when people who she knows come to see her. Makes her second-guess herself.”

                “I didn’t know that! I’ve seen her loads of times,” Karen exclaims.

                How fair is that? Letting her sister come to see her but not me. What an outrage. “You’re her sister, though, so it’s different.”

                “Well yes, that’s true…” she says slowly. “No reason to be nervous, though; she’s always hilarious, don’t you think?”

                After a moment’s pause, I realize that she’s asking me, and I can’t help but blush slightly. “I wouldn’t know, because she’s always insisted that I can’t watch.”

                “Oh,” Karen says. Everyone at the table considers this.

                “Maybe we can find something else to do,” Jenna says at last.

                “Excellent idea.”

                Catherine returns, and Jenna apologizes but says that perhaps it’d be best if we not attend this reading after all.

                Dessert runs as smoothly as one could hope. Karen suggests that we all go out to a club, but I veto that very quickly with the reminder that some members of our party are not yet able to drink, or merely refrain from drinking. And after a brief discussion about perhaps returning to someone’s place to sit around and chat, Matt puts an end to that, too, declaring that if we stop anywhere, it’s unlikely that he will be leaving, and he certainly won’t be driving people home.

                So we pile back into the car. I’m pressed in between Arthur and Catherine and I spend the half of the drive wondering whether I could hold Catherine’s hand without my companions noticing and the other half chastising myself for wanting to because—as I’ve told myself a million times since Wednesday morning—we’re not in a relationship, no matter how much we might have been playing at one for a little while.

                When we get home, I promptly retreat to my bedroom in the hopes of getting some privacy.

                Jenna follows me and plops down on the corner of my bed. I try to ignore her, grabbing a book from the bedside table and opening it, but she isn’t deterred.

                “That was the weirdest dinner I’ve ever sat through.”

                I roll my eyes. “You exaggerate. There’s no way that could be worse than the first time Dad attempted Thanksgiving.”

                “The only time,” she adds. We both chuckle, but they’re empty laughs. “It was, though. Weirder. Like, I kept expecting you all to burst out laughing and declare that you were punking me. I just can’t believe _none of them_ know.”

                She’s bluffing. For sure. Got to be. “What are you talking about?”

                “David, please. I knew as soon as she got into the car.”

                Bluffing. Must be bluffing. But I decide to throw her a bone. “Fine, so I like her. What of it? That’s no secret.”

                Jenna shakes her head. “Not what I’m talking about. You grin this dopey little grin whenever someone just says, ‘Catherine’. You just did it then. Anyone could see you like her. I’m not talking about the _blindingly_ obvious. Just the… slightly less blindingly obvious.”

                “Which would be what, exactly?” I’m impressed by how nonchalant I am. I feel like I must seem almost bored.

                “One of your friends has won their little bet.” She sits up and crosses her legs, grinning eagerly. In anticipation of an explanation, I suppose. “I’m guessing Matt. There’s no way you’ve been able to keep a secret this big since before Black Friday.”

                “Why does everyone think that?” I sound suddenly whiny, even to myself. “I can keep secrets.”

                She smirks. “You’re not denying it anymore, that’s something.”

                I realize that she’s right. I look at my sister carefully and consider the situation. I would say that there’s still a large chance that she’s bluffing. We might be related, but it’s not as though she’s got a sensor that can detect which women I’ve slept with. Still, though… Maybe it’s high time that I tell her. Maybe I should have told her a long time ago. Maybe it would have saved me from this mess, stopped me from playing domestic and from falling far, far too hard.

                Probably not.

                But I think that I need to let her in on the secret now.

                “You’re talking like it only happened once,” I say at last.

                It should have only happened once. It shouldn’t have happened at all, but since it did happen, it certainly should not have happened again.

                She gasps and covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh, David, you’re joking!”

                I shake my head. “The first time was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.”

                “No, I don’t believe you. You would have slipped up. Told someone. She would have. One of you would have told.”

                “Why would I? It happened because a woman answered her boyfriend’s phone. At first I thought that was the beginning of the end, so I figured it would work itself out. But they didn’t break up and I was too embarrassed, then. And I resolved to make sure it didn’t happen again. And it wasn’t going to, I was so sure of it… But then our heat went out and I had to stay with her. I wanted to stay with her, maybe, not had to, but in any case I ended up there.”

                Jenna looks solemn, the legitimacy of my claim getting to her. “But she’s still got the asshole boyfriend.”

                “Yeah.”

                “Okay.” She hesitates, and I worry that she’ll decide against saying it, but finally she does: “Do you want to know what I think?”

                “Wouldn’t have told you otherwise.” I try my best to smile.

                “I liked Catherine. And if everything were magically fixed between you and you were able to start an actual relationship, then I would be overjoyed.”

                “But…?”

                “But… I think the chances of that are slim. I think you should operate under the assumption that you can only ever be friends.”

                “And how—”

                “Sever ties, if you have to. You shouldn’t be left hanging on when she’s well past it.” Due to my grimace, she rushes to add, “Only if you have to. Really. Again, I liked her; I don’t blame you for wanting to keep her around.”

                I absorb this information, playing it over and over in my head. Finally I say, “Friends is fine, though. I can do friends.”

                “Of course you can.” Jenna smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.


	21. Chapter 20: Catherine

                Saturday morning comes along and I still haven’t spoken with Twig. With each day that I prolong the silence between us, I am filled with an increasing amount of dread—both because I don’t know what I will say when I finally call him, and because he isn’t exactly reaching out to me, either. I suppose he’s never had to. I’ve always been the one to call him, to make sure that we were caught up on each other’s lives, to make sure that we saw one another regularly. I’ve always been the one working to hold us together.

                Makes a girl wonder how long the relationship would have lasted otherwise. Makes a girl wonder if it’s worth the effort of holding together.

                And so I can’t call him, not yet. Not until I’ve figured that out.

                I’ve been trying. I’ve devoted much of my energy to it these past few days. Except last night, of course. Then, I was primarily focused on David and the fact that he seemed so out of sorts. Regardless of how much he insisted he was fine, it was pretty obvious that he _wasn’t_ and I’m still concerned that I was part of the reason that he was so messed up.

                But I daresay I probably am part of the reason. Because after the first time we slept together, we could look back and call it a mistake. We could just forget about it. There was still a chance. This past week, I think we destroyed that chance. I didn’t realize precisely how thoroughly we ruined it until last night, when the simple act of sitting beside him became a complex process—determining how close we could be, how much we could touch, how much I could look at him.

                I don’t know if I can do it, be friends. Not after I saw how comfortably, how _effortlessly_ we coexisted while he was staying at my apartment.

                I doubt if he can do it either, no matter how much he might insist otherwise to everyone.

                So I don’t think I can remain just _friends_ with David, but I’m not sure whether I want to break up with Twig. And were I to break up with Twig, I certainly wouldn’t want to do it _because_ of David—I would want to do it because the relationship is no longer the best thing for me.

                Which it might not be. But with this whole mess clouding my judgment, I’m struggling to see things properly and I can’t make such a drastic decision just because David charmed me with his delightful company and surprisingly marvelous cooking.

                But I’m terrified that my inability to figure things out in time will create a gap between me and David that I will never be able to repair.  

                It’s as though he knows I’m thinking of him, because he texts me a photo of himself with his arms wrapped around a Christmas tree as Arthur saws at the base, and provides the caption, “Look, I’m such a tree hugger.”

                The joke is abysmal but it makes me laugh all the same.

 

> And an inefficient one at that; it’s still coming down.

 

                Another photo comes within minutes. Unlike the first, this is a selfie; he’s now sitting in a car, holding a half-eaten pastry up for me to see.

 

> They bribed me with donuts. I was weak.
> 
> So you’d allow them to cut down the rain forests if they gave you donuts.
> 
> How many donuts? What kind of donuts? There are many variables.
> 
> Glad to know you have some standards, at least.
> 
> Trust me Catherine, I’ve got the highest standards.

               

                He always does that, says something that’s so innocent but that still manages to make me squirm. I feel certain that he must do it on purpose.

                I can’t answer to that, and I don’t.

                And it’s not until I’m on the train on the way to the reading that I hear from him again, this time with a phone call.

                “David, hi! What, um… what’s going on?”

                “I’ve lost Arthur and my sister.”

                I frown, mostly because I can tell from the frantic tone that it would be inappropriate to laugh, and that’s my only other instinct. “What do you mean, _lost_ them?”

                “I mean that after we set up the tree and decorated it, I fell asleep on the couch and when I woke up they were gone. Both of their phones are off so I can’t reach them.”

                “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… why are you calling to tell me this? They probably just went out to the store or something, I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

                He sighs like I’m missing something obvious. “They might have, yeah, but Arthur was behaving rather suspiciously earlier, having some whispered conversation over the phone with Matt. I hate to ask, but… you didn’t, y’know, tell Karen where you were doing this reading thing, did you?”

                “Not to say that that’s a stretch of the imagination, but…” Even as I try to tell him that the theory is irrational, the thought that people might be coming to watch me read still makes me feel anxious. A slim chance is still a chance, and there _is_ a chance because I realize that yes, I did tell Karen where this was happening, weeks ago, off-handed but that’d be enough, if they did decide to show.

                “I know it’s probably nothing,” David concedes. “But what if it’s something? You don’t… or, well, I mean to say, if it came down to it—”

                God, if it came down to it. “It won’t.” I hope.

                “But if it does?”

                I’d read it anyway, I realize. If I saw a mob of my friends and acquaintances in the crowd, I’d still just read it. By this point they all think that something happened between me and David, so maybe there’s no point in denying it anymore. But I remind myself of just how unlikely it is that they _will_ show up, and again I say, “It won’t.” Because it’s absurd to imagine that they would formulate a complex plan to come to my reading without David.

                “Promise?”

                “Of course. So stop pouting.”

                “How do you know whether I’m pouting?”

                “ _Are_ you pouting?”

                He remains silent for a bit longer than necessary as he thinks it over. “Perhaps a little.”

                “Thought so.”

                “You’re probably right. I’m just letting my imagination get the best of me. Thanks, Cath.”

                I smile slightly. “I’ll talk to you later.” No doubt when he calls or texts to inform me that Jenna and Arthur have safely returned and that they just went out to buy dinner or do something else equally innocuous.

                The venue is a bit of a hole in the wall, a small bar in the city that Karen’s dragged me to once or twice when she’s had no one else to go out with. I like it, though, as bars go; it’s certainly got character. When I arrive, it’s already teeming with life, and a mob of people are crowded around the bar, trying to purchase drinks before the show starts. I ignore that whole mess and go through to the next room, where there’s already a decent number of people seated in front of the stage. I scan the room until I single out Bernard, the coordinator of the event and the one who roped me into reading in the first place.

                Bernard’s a sweet, older gentleman who owns both this bar and another on the other side of town—because just one isn’t enough for him. He gave me my first stand-up gig here in Chicago, and since then, he’s always done his best to tell me about possible gigs. When he decided to arrange this literary reading, I was one of the first people he called. I told him countless times that I’ve never done anything of the sort, but he insisted that whatever I came up with would be brilliant.

                At the sight of me, he grins. “Catherine! Everyone else is here already; I was worried you were going to feign illness and try to claim that you couldn’t be here.”

                I’m about to act indignant and ask why everyone seems to think that I’m faking sickness, before it occurs to me that Bernard has no idea about David, and that he’s simply teasing. So I smile and shake my head. “No, of course not. I’m all set to go.”

                “Maybe a bit nervous, though?”

                Yes. My heart’s beating a mile a minute. But again, I shake my head. “Nah. This’ll be great.”

                Despite my insistence that I’m not nervous, as the show starts up, I hardly catch a word that comes out of the mouths of the performers before me. I receive a sharp jab in the side from Bernard as he gets up to announce me, and I try to calm myself.

                Enough lights shine down on me that I can’t judge the size of my audience or even make eye contact with anyone beyond the first row. I bite my lip as I straighten my papers on the music stand in front of me, and finally I look up and smile. “Hey guys. This is my first time doing one of these things, so bear with me here.”

                I feel more like I’m watching myself perform, rather than actually standing there up on stage reading. I look more confident than I feel. Each time a joke gets a solid laugh, my confidence builds. They’re enjoying this. Meanwhile, I listen to myself describe the events of David’s stay and I’m filled with so much joy at the thought of him. I end it by quoting the note that he left, a last-minute addition that I shamelessly made because I thought it would be well-received. I was right, and I feel such a swell of pride in David for making the joke in the first place.

                My confidence drains away as soon as I am stepping down from the stage, and I return to my seat beside Bernard with shaky legs.

                “That was magnificent, Catherine. I knew it would go over well. Though I was a bit surprised by the choice of subject matter.” He raises his eyebrows.

                I ignore that last bit. “Yeah, yeah, now that we’ve got the ‘I told you so,’ over with, I’m going to get a glass of water.”

                But I don’t get far. Because standing at the back of the room, right in my way to the bar, are Karen, Matt, Arthur, and Jenna. And they’re all staring at me. Karen and Matt both look to be confused. Jenna’s face doesn’t reveal much; either she has a very good poker face, or David told her. I don’t know how I feel about that possibility.

                And then Arthur… well, Arthur looks livid.

                I blush bright red and immediately turn tail and rush back to grab my coat. “I’ve got to go,” I tell Bernard.

                “What, now? We’re only halfway through!”

                “I know, I know, I’m sorry but I’ve just really got to go.” I need to talk to David before any of them get to him. I need to prepare him for what’s coming.

                Something about the look in my eye must tell him how serious I am. “Okay. Good job tonight.”

                “Thanks,” I mutter but I’m already gone, rushing past Karen and the others as though they’re not even there. My sister calls after me, but I ignore her. Out the door, practically sprinting down the block to the El. The trains are in my favor tonight, it seems; one pulls up just as I reach the platform, and as soon as it’s out of the station, I pull out my phone to call David.

                “They’re still not back,” he says, by way of greeting.

                “I know.”

                “What do you mean, you know?”

                I sigh. “I mean that your paranoid, stretch of the imagination theory was right. They showed up. Karen, Matt, Arthur, and Jenna. They were all there. I didn’t see them until after I finished.”

                “Oh.”

                “Yeah.”

                We sit in silence for some moments. I stare out the window at all of the Christmas lights that have been put up, waiting while David considers the situation. Finally, he says, “What did you say?”

                “Nothing. As soon as I caught sight of them I ran.”

                He laughs slightly. “No, I mean, what did you mention in your reading? What do they know?”

                “I only wrote about the days you stayed with me. I didn’t say anything about… the time before Thanksgiving. I didn’t want to make it seem too complicated.”

                “Didn’t want to seem like the bad guy,” he mutters.

                “What?” I ask, alarmed. Did I hear him right?

                “Nothing. I was talking to myself.” He pauses again. “What happens now?”

                That’s why I called him. So he could help me to figure out what should happen. “I don’t know.”

                “For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me.”

                I frown. Where is this coming from? “David, what—”

                “I have to go,” he says, abruptly. “I’ve got an incoming call from Jenna.”

                “David, wait!”

                Too late. Line’s already dead.

                Fuck. Now I need to cope by myself.

                My sister sends me a text and asks if she can come over to my apartment. As if I could stop her if I didn’t want her there. She arrives less than ten minutes after I do, which makes me assume that she must have caught the very next train.

                When she comes in, her very first remark is, “So, while we chat, is there a place in your apartment we can sit where you and David didn’t have sex? From the way you described it, it sounds like you were very thorough.”

                 I squint at Karen, attempting to read her expression. But before I can answer, she starts laughing. “God, Catherine, relax. You have nothing to be frightened of. David does, maybe; Arthur looked pretty furious, asked Matt to hang out with Jenna while he went home and had a talk with David. The things I would give to be a fly on the wall when that goes down…”

                She grabs my arm and pulls me over to the couch. “I see little reason in being angry with you, though. I mean, not that I approve of cheating as a general practice, but you know I never liked Twig and I still believe that he’s cheated on you, so why not give him a taste of his own medicine. And as far as not telling us, I can certainly understand why you’d be ashamed to admit that something _was_ happening, because imagine all the ‘I told you so’s! I will refrain, of course, because obviously now isn’t the time.”

                “Are you finished?” I exclaim.

                “Yeah, I suppose. Although I have to ask: when did it first happen? Because Matt and I were arguing about it, I don’t believe that this could have been the first time but he feels certain that David couldn’t have kept it a secret for very long.”

                Poor David. Seems like everyone doubts his ability to keep a secret. I blush, reluctant to give away the information, but there’s no reason not to take the full disclosure route now. “You’re right. The first time was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.”

                 “Is that why you were so out of sorts all Wednesday? I knew there was something going on! After you told me about the woman picking up the phone, I assumed that was the problem.”

                “I mean, it was that too, but… David wasn’t exactly happy with me that morning. He woke up and caught me trying to leave.”

                “Oh, Catherine…” She looks sympathetic, rather than judgmental, and I’m grateful. “And then you reconciled with Twig while we were at home. So last week when we all went out for Arthur’s birthday, that’s why he was all bitter, yeah?” I nod, and she smirks. “Got over it rather quick, though, didn’t he?”

                Not if the sudden downturn in our conversation this evening is any way to judge. “I don’t think so,” I sigh. “I think he just… pushed it down, tried to ignore it.”

                “Hmm.” She hums thoughtfully. “Well, what are you going to do now? There’s no way you can expect things to just go on as they were, not after, y’know, such _stellar_ customer service.”

                “That really is a direct quote from him.”

                Karen chuckles. “Really? I can believe it. Not quite your style of humor. I mean, like, you’d find it funny, but you wouldn’t come up with it.”

                “I get what you mean.”

                “Yeah. But don’t try to change the subject. I asked you a very serious question. What happens now?”

                I take a deep breath, fidgeting with my hands in my lap. “He asked me too. When I called to let him know that you all had come to see me, and that now you knew… he asked.”

                “And?”

                “Like I told him… I don’t know.”

                She groans in exasperation. “Catherine! What am I going to do with you? What do you mean, _you don’t_ _know_?”

                “I mean exactly what I said—I don’t fucking know. I can’t see straight anymore, I can’t tell what it is that I want.” I don’t want to lose David. That’s all I know. I’ll do anything to stop that from happening.

                Faintly, I hear my phone ringing. I jump up and rush to pull it out of my purse, scrambling around for it. Perhaps it’s David again, calling to tell me about whatever happened between him and Arthur.

                But it’s not David, and I let out a small gasp at the sight of the name staring up at me from the screen.

                “Who is it?” Karen calls.

                “It’s Twig.”

                The severity of this situation seems to hit her, although she doesn’t know the full extent of it—that it’s been exactly a week, now, since he and I have spoken. And that Twig never is the one to call me. This must be marking quite the special occasion. But still, she says, “I’ll refrain from making any comments. That’s not what you need right now.”

                “Thank you,” I say, as lightly as I can manage under the circumstances. I take in a deep, shuddering breath, and accept the call. “Hello?”

                “Hi Catherine. It’s been a little while.”

                “Yeah, I’m sorry.” After wasting so much time trying to formulate a proper excuse, I find that I don’t want to justify my radio silence.

                Twig leaves space for me to explain, but finally seems to realize that I have no intention of doing so. “It’s fine. I’ve… I’ve been wanting to chat for a few days, now, but I was expecting you to phone me up. That’s not important, though. I’m calling because… well, that is to say, I think it’s time we had a talk.”

                I stare blankly at Karen as I press him on. “Alright. Go ahead. Talk.”


	22. Chapter 21: David

                Thanks to Jenna’s call, I’m unsurprised when Arthur comes home alone. She told me, very apologetically, that Arthur asked her to stay with Matt for a while, and that she hardly felt that she was in a position to refuse. “Especially not with him looking like that,” she had said.

                When he walks through the door, I can see what she means.

                Some people, when they get angry… their first instinct is to yell. Some people get irrational and lose sight of their point and yet they keep on yelling. It can be terrifying.

                Arthur, on the other hand, remains calm. He remains collected. But it seems like a single word might be enough to push him over the brink. And that, to my mind, is a thousand times worse.

                He wastes no time with pleasantries. “Is it true?”

                “Yeah.” I’ve got no idea about the specifics of what she wrote, so the details could be off, but I get the impression that Arthur isn’t particularly interested in such technicalities.

                “We all bought that shyness thing, y’know. That’s why we thought we’d surprise her after her performance. Couldn’t bring you, of course; you’d have told on us. I mean, we thought so at first, but now…” He shrugs. “You were just trying to keep your little secret. I can’t believe that, you know. You’re shit at keeping secrets. Always eager to let us know that you’ve fucked someone. It’s always surprised me that you didn’t literally make marks on your bedpost.”

                “Catherine’s not just a mark on my bedpost,” I tell him weakly.

                He laughs coldly. This isn’t Arthur, not as I know him. Why has this got him so upset? Karen and Matt aren’t angry, and nor is Jenna—though of course, I told Jenna last night, but she wasn’t angry then. Why is Arthur reacting so viciously? “Seems like you’re just another mark on hers, though, doesn’t it?”

                “That’s not fair!” I exclaim.

                “When did it first happen? Surely this week wasn’t the first time.”

                I almost hope that he doesn’t hear me when I answer, “The day you left to go home for Thanksgiving. That was the first time.”

                “Oh! You’re even better at keeping secrets than I thought! Well, good on you, David. And congratulations a few weeks late for actually sleeping with a girl who’s already tied down in a relationship! I’m sure that made you feel good about yourself.”

                “Why are you saying all these things?” I ask.

                Arthur halts his pacing directly in front of me, looks at me like I’m a moron. “Why am I saying these things? Because you didn’t just keep it a fucking secret, did you, David? You flat-out _lied_ to me! You swore to me that nothing was happening and I believed you! In fact, I gave you an excuse to dig yourself into an even deeper hole because I insisted that you stay with Catherine for another day. Not to sound juvenile, but I thought we were best friends. And yet you didn’t think you could trust me with this.”

                In my haste to contradict him, I literally jump out of my seat. “Is that really what you think?”

                “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”

                I shake my head vehemently. “No, Arthur, that’s not it at all.” He looks skeptical, and as sorry as it makes me, I can’t blame him. If our positions were reversed, I’m sure I would see it the same way. “I was embarrassed. Christ, wouldn’t you be? I mean, Catherine is… I don’t have to tell you how I feel about her. Every time I thought about confiding in you, I got scared because I knew you would tell me that I needed to put a stop to what was happening, and as much as it kills me, I didn’t want it to stop. Because… well, again… you know.”

                “Yeah, I do know.” Arthur seems to be intentionally avoiding my eyes, but he seems to be receptive to my explanation, at least, and for that I’m grateful. We stand a few feet apart in the living room, me watching him as he processes. Finally, he looks up at me, and he’s still frowning. “I put up with you blasting that fucking One Direction song on repeat for God knows how many days…”

                I have to work hard to suppress a grin, and try to act outraged. “Hey, ‘Happily’ is a masterpiece!”

                He slaps my arm and goes to relax on the couch. “That’s your only flaw, David; your damn taste in music. I’ve failed you as a friend if you think that any song by One Direction is a masterpiece.”

                The air is still tense between us, but the joke has lightened the tone somewhat. I consider joining him on the couch to perhaps watch some TV, but one look at his face is enough to tell me that he’s not done with me yet. “I need a drink,” I inform him.

                “I second that motion,” he calls after me as I stroll toward the kitchen.

                I open the fridge and nearly grab two bottles of beer, but it doesn’t seem like enough. Something stronger, I think.

                I return with whiskey and two shot glasses instead. Doesn’t seem to surprise him much.

                “Just because I’m drinking with you, it doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you,” Arthur says. “I understand, is all. I’m not okay with it. And I think you’re wrong—if I’d been in your situation, I would have told you. But I still do understand.”

                “Right, as long as we’ve got that out of the way, then…” I hand him a glass, and we clink them together before throwing our heads back in sync and swallowing the whiskey.

                I make a face—I so rarely drink anything more than wine or beer, because neither Arthur nor I has much need to keep a lot of liquor around, and when we’re out, I always seem to end up driving the masses home. But still, I pour myself another. Arthur puts his glass down on the coffee table and nudges it toward me. “So what happens now?”

                “Why does everyone expect me to have the answer to that question?” I exclaim. In my aggravation, I spill some of Arthur’s drink onto the table.

                He seems to notice that he’s hit a sore point, and he takes the bottle of whiskey out of my hand and pours for me. “I expected you not to, actually. I just kind of hoped that you might have thought it through a bit better.”

                “Jenna told me to try to get over it. She doesn’t think that Catherine will break up with Twig.”

                “You told Jenna and not me?” I scowl, and he backs off. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Then Catherine definitely is still dating Twig, yeah?”

                I nod. “Unless they just so happen to have broken up since I spoke with her about an hour ago, then yes.”

                Arthur grimaces down at his shot glass, mutters, “It’s times like these that I wish you’d let your sister become a bartender so that she could whip us up an actual drink.”

                “Jenna didn’t even have the idea to become a bartender until you put it into her head, so I blame you for that. But that’s not important right now, Arthur! What do I do about Catherine?”

                He shrugs and gulps down the shot. “I dunno. Don’t make me give you advice. I’m shit at advice. So Jenna told you to do the friends thing?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Because that worked out so well the first time.”

                “I had the same thought, yes.”

                “What alternative is there? If she’s still with the shit boyfriend and if you two can’t keep your hands off of each other.”

                Jenna’s words echo through my head and I don’t want to repeat them. I take another drink instead. Arthur waits. Grab his glass from him, pour him another, but still, he waits. “‘Sever ties, if I have to.’ That’s what Jenna told me.”

                The words make me feel like I could vomit. _Sever ties_. The thought is as painful and outlandish now as it was when she first made the suggestion and I tell myself for the thousandth time that there’s got to be something else, anything else. If Catherine and I try hard enough we can be just friends until maybe she finally figures out that Twig isn’t anything to sneeze at but that I’m right here and ready and waiting and hoping and praying for her to finally notice just how much I love her.

                Granted, I think she knows already, despite the fact that I haven’t said anything. Everyone likes to point out how bad I am at keeping secrets and I am. So maybe she knows. But maybe if I wait long enough, it’ll count for something.

                Arthur lets the conversation fade. I lose track of how much we drink. He stops first, and unsteadily makes his way to the kitchen. He returns with two glasses of water, one of which he pushes on me. He keeps pestering me until I drink some of it.

                “You’ll wake up with a hangover otherwise,” he tells me.

                It’ll take a hell of a lot more water to keep up with the amount of liquor I’ve got running through me. But I don’t point that out. It’s the thought that counts.

                “Remind me to give you the silent treatment tomorrow,” he says a few minutes later. “Lying, playing One Direction, and now drinking all of my whiskey, too. I’m furious.”

                Doesn’t look much like it right now, with his arm flung over my shoulder so genially. I can’t help it—I start laughing.

                He does his best to act indignant, but he joins in soon enough.

                Finally, we settle down. I lean my head on his shoulder, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. “I’m scared, Arthur.”

                “You mean about Catherine?”

                “Aye.”

                He chuckles. “You talk weird when you’re drunk. I understand you’re scared, but what can you do?”

                “Maybe Jenna’s right,” I mumble.

                “I know that you don’t mean that. Like, you know that idea, what’s it called? Multi-verse, I think. Every possibility in some universe, yada yada. That thing. It’s wrong. There’s not a single fucking universe where you’d want to sever ties with Catherine.”

                I shake my head, which, under the circumstances, simply involves an awful lot of rubbing of my face against Arthur’s shoulder. “I didn’t say I want to. I just said Jenna might be right. God, Arthur, I don’t… I don’t _want_ to. I can’t imagine my life without her. Do you know how many other people I can say that about? Like… Jenna. And you. I’ve only known Catherine for a few months, and already I don’t know how I’ll go on if something tears us apart. There’s something very wrong if I ever say that I _want_ to sever ties with Catherine. Like, wronger than wrong. The wrongest.”

                Arthur laughs again. Suppose that’s fair, him laughing a bit at my expense. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

                I try to lean forward and grab the bottle to pour myself another drink, but Arthur also goes to grab it, and he sets it out of my reach. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight, David. Now drink more water.” He sets the glass in my hand instead.

                “Spoilsport.” I pout but I do as he says. Then I settle back in with my head on his shoulder. After a moment’s thought, I say, “I miss Catherine.”

                “You just saw her last night.”

                “No, no, that’s not what I mean.” I roll my eyes. “When I was staying there, we—”

                “Had an awful lot of sex, from the way she told it.”

                I punch him. “Stop. That’s not all we did. We… we talked a lot. We… well, I tried to get her to bake cookies with me but that just turned into a flour fight. We watched television and we played games and we cuddled. She’s so cozy to cuddle with, Arthur. And sleeping with her—actually sleeping, I mean—was so reassuring, just having her… right there, next to me. It felt right, y’know?”

                “Yeah, I know.”

                “And she seemed so happy, too. I don’t think she talked to Twig once in that whole time? She was trying on Saturday night but after that it was like he just ceased to exist. Oh, and he called on Sunday but I talked her out of going to answer. She actually _didn’t pick up the phone_ , Arthur. And that was when she really started to act all carefree and… happy. I mean, what does that tell you, that she was so happy with me, while her boyfriend was temporarily nonexistent?”

                “Maybe you should stop stewing over it,” Arthur says carefully. “You’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight.”

                I ignore him and pull my cell out of my pocket. “I wanna talk to her.”

                “Now _that’s_ a bad idea.” He quickly snatches it from my hand. “You’re drunk. You’re not fit to be driving, operating heavy machinery, or phoning up the girl you’re in love with.”

                I try to stare him down, will him to return the phone, but he doesn’t break. So I tackle him, pushing him back onto the couch. “Gimme my phone! I know what I’m doing!”

                Arthur tries to hold it out of my reach, but unfortunately for him, my arms are longer, and I finally am able to tug it from his grasp. Immediately, I jump up and sprint into my room, locking the door behind me.

                “David!” He bangs on the door. “Don’t call her. You’re gonna say something stupid and you’ll wake up in the morning regretting it.”

                “I am not!” I hope not, at least. But it’s already ringing, so too late to back down now.

                She answers, and I hear some fervent whispering from her side for a few seconds before, “Hi, David! I was just trying to decide whether I should call you or wait until morning. There’s something we should talk about.”

                “Me first.”

                “Oh. Um, okay.”

                “Arthur came home to me tonight, pissed as all get out.”

                “Damn straight!” Arthur shouts.

                I can’t believe him, listening through the fucking door. “Fuck off, Arthur.” He doesn’t answer me, so I return my attention to Catherine. “Like really pissed. He’s sworn to give me the silent treatment tomorrow. Arthur can’t keep silent for shit so you know it must be serious. And so he came home and he was pissed and wanted to know why I had lied to him. Because on Tuesday, he asked me to tell him if anything was going on between you and me. Straight-forward, he asked, and he’s my best friend, he is, so I almost did. You wanna know why I didn’t?”

                “David, are you drunk?” she asks, voice shaky.

                “I was embarrassed,” I say, ignoring her question. “We slept together… I lost count of how many times, but it was a lot. And I was so embarrassed because I knew, you know, I knew that in the end we were going to have to just pretend that it didn’t happen but I also knew that you’d be able to get me back in your bed with just the snap of your fingers if you wanted me. God, Catherine, I hate how much I let you throw me around and sometimes I wonder if you even realize that what we’ve done is _wrong_. Like, do you even care that you cheated on your boyfriend? Unless you were just trying to get back at him, maybe, eye for an eye and that sort of thing.”

                “What? No, that’s not… you don’t even know how confused—”

                “That’s all you ever talk about! How confused you are, how you don’t know what you want. Because it’s not at all confusing for me when one moment you’re eager to run and talk to your boyfriend and the next moment you’re talking so fondly about how I blink all weird.”

                “Oh my God, she’s noticed that too?”

                “ _Go away_ , Arthur!” Again, silence, and I rush to continue. “You confuse me and I’m so sick and tired of feeling confused and embarrassed and of knowing that I will respond to your beck and call at all hours of the day, no matter what it is that you want from me because God, I would do _anything_ to keep you happy. I’m just tired of it.” I hesitate, and for the first time my filter almost stops me from saying what I say next. “You know how I said that you’re perfect?”

                Her voice is barely audible, only comes out as a quiver. “Yes.”

                “It’s not that you’re perfect. No one’s perfect. It’s just that I’m so in love with you that your flaws don’t even seem to fucking matter.”

                “Oh, but David, that’s—”

                “Stop! Let me finish.” I listen to her shallow breathing, and some part of me realizes that I’m making her anxious but I’m too frustrated to care. Tears are building up in my eyes and I’m just so frustrated. “God, Cath, I love you. I’ve known it for a long time but I’ve made sure not to say anything because I didn’t want to rock the boat. I thought if I waited, this could work out, in the end. But I’m not so sure. Not anymore. Because,” I say, louder, because she’s trying to interject again and if I stop then I’ll never get this out. “You came along and you made me happy and I thought we complemented one another, you and I, but you’re not making me happy anymore and I can’t bear it. I don’t want it anymore.”

                I would wonder if she’d hung up on me, were it not for that same shallow breathing still coming from her end of the line. “Do you really mean that?”

                “Yes.”

                “I feel like you’re breaking up with me,” she says. Her voice is so shaky. God, I’m a horrible person. I should take all of it back and just comfort her, tell her that I’m just drunk and that I don’t mean it. But this feeling has been building up in me for so long that I know I can’t just take it back, so I try to steel myself as she proceeds. “We weren’t even in a relationship and you’re breaking up with me.”

                “Oh, Catherine. If what happened between us wasn’t enough to constitute a relationship, then I’ve never been in a relationship in my life because nothing comes even close to what we had.”

                Before I can take anything back, I end the call and throw it to the other side of the room, so that it lands in a pile of clothes.

                Well, that wasn’t quite the call that I’d been envisioning when I was fighting Arthur for the phone. Once I started, though, I couldn’t stop.

                I want to call her again. Make sure that she’s okay. But I can’t keep going to such great lengths to maintain her happiness. I need to think about my own. And… she’s not making me happy anymore. Even with that sense of humor, that beautiful hair, those eyes, the total ignorance of all things in pop culture… the way she fits into my arms like a hand in a glove, and bites her lip. Oh, that most of all, Catherine biting her lip. Even that’s not making me happy, not anymore. Not happy at all. No. No happiness whatsoever. None.

                Arthur knocks on my door lightly, and I begrudgingly get up to let him in. He’s sitting on the floor against the door frame. “No one likes an eavesdropper,” I inform him.

                He holds up another glass of water to me in response, and I roll my eyes but drink it anyway.

                “You think I’ll regret that?” I ask, dropping back down onto my bed.

                “I don’t need to be a mind reader to know that you already regret it.”

                “Not me. No. That was the only proper course of action. It had to happen. I don’t regret it in the slightest.”

                “Of course not.”

                I drop my head onto his shoulder once again. Tears are still welled up in my eyes, and I lack the patience to keep them at bay. Arthur sits with me as I cry.


	23. Chapter 22: Catherine

                I wake up and become immediately aware of a body curled up beside mine. Who’s sleeping in my bed? Must be David. Why is David still sleeping? He always woke up before me but I hear faint snoring so he must still be asleep. I smile slightly and open my eyes, wanting to get a good look at that charming face of his while he’s still dead to the world.

                But it’s not David sleeping beside me; it’s Karen.

                What is Karen doing here? Why did she stay the night?

                Oh, God.

                The events of last night rush to the forefront of my mind all at once and I promptly wish that I could go back to sleep and forget it all.

                I was essentially broken up with by two men in one evening, and I wasn’t even dating one of them.

                Twig was such a prick about it, too. Said he’d been considering it practically since I left Boston, but that he _didn’t know how to breach the subject_.

                He admitted that he’d cheated, which was something. I almost thanked him for his honesty, before he started going on about how I drove him to it. It made me so angry that I blurted out that I’d cheated on him, too, and the conversation sort of went downhill from there.

                Although I had finally resolved to at least have a very serious conversation with Twig about whether our relationship was still working, and although I knew there was a strong possibility that such a conversation could lead to a break-up, the call still left me feeling empty and unwanted. And Karen tried to assure me that it was for the best, that I had David, but she didn’t get it—David’s not a replacement for Twig. David’s his own separate entity and he doesn’t make up for the fact that I don’t have Twig anymore, regardless of…

                Well, that’s a moot point now, I suppose. Since David called too, and he said such… awful things. All of them deserved, but still awful.

                Even after most of the phone call, I was going to simply attribute it to him being drunk and upset. Right up until the very end, when he said that I don’t make him happy anymore. He sounded so sincere that it just about tore my heart to shreds.

                I don’t want to think about it.

                But I can’t think of anything else.

                I tug on Karen’s arm until she groans and rolls away from me. “Five more minutes, Matt.”

                “I’m not your boyfriend! Wake up, Karen, c’mon.”

                “Catherine?” She blinks up at me. “Why am I— _oh_. Fuck, that’s why. Um, how are you?”

                “We should go out to breakfast,” I say. I want to get out of my apartment; I look around and I just see David all over.

                Understandably, she doesn’t really see the connection, but she doesn’t argue with me. “Okay, if you like. Mind if I take a quick shower first?”

                “Feel free.”

                I roam the apartment impatiently while I wait for her. The supposedly _quick_ shower seems to take an eternity. Maybe she just wants me to suffer. I can’t so much as sit on in a chair without feeling like David’s there with me, pouting up a storm. Tragic David. I don’t deserve him. And he finally realized that, finally realized that he can find better than me.

                And that’s… that’s good. How it should be. I’m perfectly happy for him for figuring that out. Better now than when we’ve gotten ourselves all… attached.

                I mean, I am attached. But that’s something that you can move past in time, and I’m sure that I’ll be able to get over it eventually.

                “We don’t have to go out for breakfast if you don’t want to.” Karen’s voice makes me jump as it pulls me out of my stupor.

                “No, I’d like to go out,” I insist. Her sympathy is the last thing I want right now; I just want to push the whole thing out of my mind. I should take up drinking. Though that didn’t seem to work too well for David, so perhaps I should formulate a back-up plan.

                A few blocks from my apartment, there’s a very good breakfast and lunch place, and we walk there together, trekking through a freshly fallen layer of snow. The walk is dominated by silence. We are seated at the restaurant, where we converse solely about the menu, so that once the waitress has taken our order, we fall silent once again.

                Finally, though, Karen loses patience with me. “So when are you going to call him?”

                She looks entirely unabashed, despite my scowl. “I think he made it pretty clear that he’d rather I _not_.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous. He was drunk. He didn’t mean a word he was saying.”

                “ _No_ , Karen, that’s the thing. I think he meant every word of it. I think he’s been pushing it down for a long time and last night he just sort of…”

                “Exploded. Yeah. I get it.” She shrugs. “But just because he was thinking it doesn’t mean he meant it.”

                I roll my eyes and try to direct my focus on the little plastic containers of jelly and cream at our table, with the intent of constructing an elaborate pyramid. “Every time you attempt to give me sage advice, you have this tendency of losing all measure of logic and sense, have you noticed?”

                “Ever since you met David, you’ve started to arrange sentences in increasingly elaborate ways, have you noticed?” I ignore this, true as it may be, and continue with my stacking. She lets out a dramatic huff. “Don’t you ever say things when you’re upset that you don’t really mean?”

                “‘I don’t want it anymore,’” I say, more to my pyramidic masterpiece than to my sister. “That’s what he told me. And it sounded so genuine… I mean, can you blame him of being tired of the emotional roller coaster that I put him through?”

                “He didn’t know that Twig’s no longer standing in his way.”

                I slap my hand loudly on the table, and immediately blush from the overdramatic display—the people around us have turned to look with wide, curious eyes, and I lower my voice to continue. “It doesn’t matter that I’m not dating Twig anymore. I put David through a ton of shit and he has every right to be angry with me. He’s not angry that I’m dating Twig—or at least, you know, he thinks I still am because he wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise. But still, that’s not why. It’s because I was so reluctant to make up my mind.”

                Which is ridiculous, because the more I allow myself to dwell on it, the more I have to concede that I made my mind up ages ago. I spent so long clinging to something that I didn’t even want, not by the end.

                “But now you _have_ made up your mind.”

                “Didn’t you warn me that if I didn’t figure things out, it would be too late?”

                She puts out her hand and stops me as I’m about to place the final creamer on the top of the pyramid. “You don’t really think it’s too late, do you?”

                I let out a sigh and finally look her in the eye. “Don’t you think it might be? He’s so angry with me.”

                “I don’t think that’s true,” Karen says carefully.

                What would she know about it? I try to remain patient with her as I ask, “Why would you say that?”

                “Isn’t it obvious? He sees you as… well, I can’t even think of something that describes it to the proper extent.” Perfect. He’s said it often enough that I can almost hear him whispering the words now, breathless in my ear as his lips and hands ghost across my skin. He even said it last night, when he was yelling at me. God, perfect. If only. I don’t deserve it but he believes it all the same. “The sun, the moon, and the stars combined aren’t comparable to you in his mind. No, Catherine, he’s not angry with you. It’d be easier if he were angry with you. He’s angry because he can’t find it in his heart to be angry with you. Probably terrifies the hell out of him.”

                God, she thinks she’s so insightful. I know that I’m not at my most rational, and that she’s quite possibly correct, but she _knows_ that, and I roll my eyes because she looks so smug about it. “But maybe if he’s as scared as you say, then he’s decided to wash his hands of the whole situation for good.”

                This thought makes Karen deflate. “Stop thinking like that, Catherine.” In other words, she has no retort. “I bet you he’ll call in a few days, once he’s had some time to calm down. I mean… it’s David. He can’t just… not talk to you. Especially not once he finds out that you and Twig are broken up. You’ll be back in his arms in no time.”

                I sit back and stare at her in disbelief. “You can’t expect me to just immediately start dating him.”

                “Why wouldn’t you? You were basically dating already and Twig is no longer in the picture…”

                “Right, as of approximately twelve hours ago. Don’t you think I’ve got some residual… feelings to work through, first?”

                She snorts. “You’ve got to be joking.”

                “Karen, just because you and every other person in the universe didn’t care for Twig, it doesn’t mean that I can simply shrug off our relationship and move on to the next. I had very strong feelings for him.” To think that I once thought I was in love with him. Dear God. “And I need time to get over that before I even consider trying for something with anyone else. Even if it is David.”

                _Especially_ if it’s David. Because with David… I mean, that could… that could really _be_ something. If he’ll have me, at least. And so I can’t jump into that relationship too soon. I would never forgive myself if I fucked things up even worse than I already have.

                “Whatever, we’ll talk about this later, when you’re thinking more reasonably.”

                I can’t believe that Karen doesn’t understand my perspective. I would have thought that she’d commend me for thinking it through so carefully, for wanting to wait until David and I could finally give a relationship a real go, with no skeletons left in our closets. And she says that I’m the one behaving irrationally.

                An air of tension lingers over the table after that. She tries to talk of lighter subjects, telling me about her intention to go with Matt to his parents’ place over Christmas, since we’ve decided against going home. This surprises me somewhat, because it doesn’t seem like most guys would be particularly eager to bring their girlfriend of approximately two months home with them to meet the family. But I refrain from mentioning this because I get the impression that she would take it as a challenge of sorts, rather than a simple observation about men in general.

                We finish the meal, and when we step outside into the cold, we pause to look at each other, because the El is in the opposite direction from my apartment.

                “Please don’t go home and promptly call up everyone in your address book to discuss the mess that is my life.”

                She waves this off. “C’mon, Catherine, don’t you think I’ve got other things to do than gossip about you?”

                You’d think so, but from the way that she acts sometimes, I’m really not sure.

                After a moment, she pulls me into a hug. “Don’t fret,” she instructs. “Like I said, he’ll probably only hold out for a few days. Everything will be sorted out.”

                It’s around Wednesday or Thursday that I begin to suspect she might be wrong. Or rather, I begin to lose hope that she might be right. I’d _suspected_ the worst from the beginning.

                On Friday, I’m working an evening shift with Matt, my first shift with him since the whole debacle. For the first fifteen minutes, he can only steal furtive glances in my direction and he hardly says a word. I tire of this quickly.

                “If you have something to say to me, by all means, get it over with.”

                “No, no, it’s nothing. I just sort of thought that you might have something to say to me. I had a grand old speech prepared and everything.”

                This takes me aback. “What did you expect me to say?”

                “‘How’s he doing?’”

                Oh. It actually hadn’t even occurred to me to ask that. “Nope, wasn’t gonna ask that.” Although now that he mentions it, I’d rather like to know.

                “Alright then.”

                “Yeah.”

                Why’d he have to mention it? Now I’m itching to hear what he has to say.

                I hold out less than a minute. “But how _is_ he doing?”

                Matt actually starts to laugh at me. How unfair—he dangles the hook over my head and then laughs at me for biting. “I’ll refrain from giving you the whole spiel with powerpoint presentation, and just boil it down to this—I refuse to be used to relay information about either of you back to the other. No. Not happening. Don’t make me do it. When I was in high school, I had this friend, and he made the mistake of dating our best girl friend of the time… They broke up and then totally put me in the middle and it was an absolute nightmare and…” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I digress. Point is, no. Besides which, I don’t know how he’s doing either.”

                “You don’t?”

                He shakes his head. “The last time he and I talked was when we all went out for dinner. Arthur says he’s not speaking with anyone except, like… him and Jenna. Shit, does that count as relaying information? Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

                “Whatever you say. And I won’t ask about him anymore,” I promise.

                Now that we’ve gotten that over and done with, Matt relaxes. He begins to describe to me an apparently thrilling Blackhawks game that he and Karen went to earlier in the week.

                “And I’m not gonna lie, I was a bit nervous about taking her to a game, but she was getting really into it.”

                “Oh, yeah, Karen loves hockey. Although since our dad’s from Michigan, she’s more of a Red Wings fan.” They always used to watch games together, and I smile fondly at the memory of the two of them, clad in their Red Wings jerseys and shouting up a storm at the television while Mom and I looked on, not knowing why the hell they were getting so worked up. Hockey never was my sport.

                He grins. “Yeah, she mentioned that. I dunno, might be a deal-breaker; my parents raised me to be a die-hard Hawks fan. Oh! Speaking of, I have something to ask you.”

                Before I can even tell him to go ahead, a crowd of ten teenagers come rushing into the shop and flock to the counter. I sigh. Suppose we’ll have to wait for a slow moment.

                That slow moment doesn’t come for nearly an hour, when I rush back out from the storage room with more peppermint syrup to find that the woman who was impatiently waiting for a white chocolate peppermint mocha apparently decided to leave without any coffee at all. I shove the syrup at Matt with a groan. “I couldn’t find this anywhere and I was moving boxes all over the place before I realized that it was right by the door. And now we don’t even need it. I’m a moron.”

                He laughs. “Well, I’m sure other people’ll be wanting it. It’s almost Christmas and all, so it’s the big thing. Which, again, leads quite nicely into what I wanted to ask you.”

                “That’s convenient. Go on, shoot.”

                “Okay. So Karen said that she mentioned to you that she’s coming home with me for Christmas.”

                “Yeah, she did. I think she’s really excited about it.”

                This seems to please him, because he grins widely. “I am too. But see, the thing is…” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I invited her because she said that you guys weren’t going home. But I brought it up on Saturday, before you and David had your whole, y’know, thing. And at the time, I figured that it was alright because you’d have someone to spend Christmas with anyway.”

                And even though Matt’s clearly reluctant to continue, I suddenly understand what he’s saying. If Karen’s with him, and if David and I aren’t speaking, then am I going to be all alone at Christmas?

                Dear God, that’s a daunting thought if I’ve ever heard one.

                “That’s alright, though,” I say carefully. “I’ve never much cared for Christmas.”

                “Are you sure? Because I could always suggest to Karen—”

                I shake my head vehemently. “No, that’s really not necessary. It’s just another day, Matt.”

                Even though I don’t think he believes me, he shrugs and just asks me to let him know if I change my mind. But I know I won’t. Even though I adore Christmas, I can’t bear the thought of making my sister stay home just so that I won’t be lonely.

                Besides, I’m still clinging on to the hope that David will call before then. 


	24. Chapter 23: David

                Arthur’s having a whispered phone conversation in the next room. He’s been having a lot of those in the past week or so. I assume that they’re with Matt; I can’t think of who else it would be, because as soon as she heard about what I’d done, Jenna canceled her flight out of Chicago and decided to stay with me until she has to go back to school. I tried to insist against it, especially when I found out that she’d had every intention of going with a couple of friends to _Hawaii,_ and why put up with Chicago weather instead? But she didn’t listen, and said that family time was more important. As if I don’t know why she’s actually still here.

                But in any case, given that Jenna’s still with us, I can think of no one else with whom Arthur could be having these whispered conversations about me. It’s funny, in a way; I’m intrigued by the conversations because he’s whispering, but he’s whispering because he doesn’t want me to know what he’s talking about. I wouldn’t bother to listen in if he just spoke at a normal volume.

                Jenna doesn’t approve of my eavesdropping, but she’s not doing anything to stop it, either, so while she sits perched on the couch, reading a magazine, I’m standing on the other end with my ear pressed to the wall, hoping to pick up on snatches of what Arthur says.

                “You know you’ll hear more if you listen through the door,” she mutters.

                “I tried that; the floor’s too creaky and he just tells me to go away. Now _shush_.”

                I strain to tune out the sound of the heater, and the Christmas CD that Jenna insists on playing, in favor of Arthur’s hurried whisper. “—known about this how long?” Silence. “Matt!” Now _that_ I could have heard if I’d been on the other side of the apartment. He quickly lowers his voice again. “Don’t … that maybe this … changed _everything_? Don’t you … maybe he should know … and make a … go from there?”

                ‘Maybe he should know’? That he’s probably me. Maybe I should know? Maybe I should know _what_?

                I jump off the couch and rush around the corner, bang on Arthur’s door. “What’s Matt been keeping from me, Arthur?”

                He groans. “Matt, I’ve got to go, David’s been eavesdropping again.” A pause for what I assume is Matt’s response. “Yes, I know that’s true, but I imagine he’ll work it out of me somehow. He’s very creative.”

                “Tell him I intend to do whatever it takes!”

                “I might take you up on that,” Arthur says with a chuckle, but there’s an odd strain in his voice that I can’t for the life of me figure out. “I’ll talk to you later, Matt.”

                Within moments, the door is open. “C’mon in, then.”

                Every time I go into Arthur’s room, I feel like he’s intentionally one-upping me. My bedroom contains hardly any furniture, and if I’m not expecting company, most of the floor is covered in clothes, books, papers… I’ve never been particularly capable of keeping a tidy room. Arthur, on the other hand, keeps his nearly spotless. He’s got shelves of books, with an actual, comfortable chair to relax in while reading said books. A dog bed for Rory, a dresser, a bedside table, a _desk_ …

                I feel the need to also mention that he got the bigger bedroom. I don’t hold a grudge, of course. For the most part.

                “Sit,” he says.

                I do so, sitting in the actual, comfortable, book-reading chair. I feel more intimidating from this vantage point. If I were to sit with him on his bed and we were to discuss the subject that I think we’re going to discuss, I might start crying again and I’d finally managed to stop doing that when it came up.

                “Matt doesn’t think I should tell you,” he informs me immediately. “’S why he took so long to tell me. He thinks he know what you’ll say, though, and _because_ of what you’ll say, it’s not worth it. Apparently.”

                “What is it?”

                He pouts. “What happened to ‘doing whatever it takes’?”

                “God, just _tell me_.”

                Arthur groans and stares down at the floor. It’s as though he doesn’t want to look at me. What could possibly put him in such a state? “She and the boyfriend broke up.”

                I swallow deeply and try to keep my face neutral. In my head, I’m screaming. Not any word in particular; just a painful, wrenching scream. I direct all my focus on speaking clearly and concisely. Indifferent, even. “Oh. When?”

                “You’re not gonna like it.”

                “ _When_?” I want to say more—‘just get it over with’, maybe, or, ‘no you’re quite right I probably won’t but I fucking want you to tell me anyway’—but I feel like more than one-word sentences might make my voice crack and that would certainly do no good, because I’d love to keep this façade up as long as possible.

                He clears his throat. Christ, Arthur, it does not take that long to clear your throat. Stop stalling, for God’s sake. “Apparently about twenty minutes before you called her.”

                Well _fuck_.

                I bury my face in my hands and slide down in the chair, land hard on the rug. I try to keep from hyperventilating, but my breathing won’t stay steady for the life of me.

                There must be some mistake. Matt might have misheard. This… it can’t be true it just can’t.

                She said it herself, she said, “I feel like you’re breaking up with me.” I broke up with her _twenty fucking minutes_ after she broke up with someone else. What the fuck is wrong with me? I replay the conversation in my head—the details are foggy in places, but I get the gist. How could I say such horrible things? I should have listened to Arthur. I shouldn’t have called her. I’ve had that thought countless times in the past week, but I’ve got no doubt about it now. If I had just not called her, then things might be… so different.

                And then I have a thought. I uncover my face and open my eyes. Arthur is staring down at me, looking, I suppose, understandably concerned. And I don’t bother to keep my voice from shaking as I ask, “Why didn’t she stop me?”

                “Maybe because you kept yelling at her to not say anything and to let you finish, and then you hung up before she could actually get a word in.”

                There is that, yes. “But then why hasn’t she called me, texted me, since? Why wasn’t _she_ the one to tell me this?”

                “She probably thinks that you’re still angry.”

                I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes. I can feel the prickle of oncoming tears but I refuse to cry about this again. “She should know that I can’t stay angry with her.” The only reason I’ve held out this long is that I’m just embarrassed. I’m hoping, praying, that she’ll make the first move. Or I was. Now, though… “What if… I mean, I spent so long waiting for her to figure things out and just telling her to make a fucking choice. I meant either me or Twig, but maybe she chose neither.”

                “ _And_ that’s exactly what Matt figured you’d say. ‘S why he didn’t tell you sooner.”

                Fuck Matt. He should have told me. Or Catherine should have told me. Someone should have fucking told me. I take a deep breath and rack my brain for some idea of how I should react to this. But I don’t know. I’m at a complete loss and it’s terrifying, so I say the only thing I can possibly think of. “What do I do now, Arthur?”

                “What?”

                I open my eyes again and shift to look at him. No tears anymore, at least for now. “I doubt Jenna will be too eager to advise me, given that I refused to speak to her until Tuesday—longer than you held out with me, I’d like to once again point out. So that leaves you. What do I do?”

                “I really don’t think I’m the best person to ask.”

                “You’re the only person to ask. Matt will tell me that he doesn’t want to get involved, and there’s no one else whose opinion I care about. _What do I do_?”

                Arthur stares at me, and for a few moments, I think he might just refuse to express his opinion. But at last he says, “If Catherine didn’t tell you, then I’m sure she has a reason. And it might be that, as you said, she chose neither of you. But y’know, David…” He leans in closer. “I doubt it. I think you’re so focused on how in love you are with her, that you never really noticed that somewhere along the way, she pretty clearly fell in love with you, too.”

                I open my mouth to say something—I don’t even know what, yet, because what the fuck can I say in response to that—but Arthur puts a hand up to stop me. “So have some faith in her. I mean… she did just break up with her _actual_ boyfriend, too, not just you. No offense.” I shake my head. Of course not, none taken. “Maybe she’s trying to _figure things out_ , and all that jazz. Don’t lose hope, okay? And stop moping around here, pouting up a storm. You’ll put a damper on Christmas.”

                “Oh, Catherine loves Christmas… She and I had this wonderful chat about family traditions around Christmas from when we were kids…”

                “That counts as moping!” He nods toward the door. “Go on, I’ve spilled the beans now, so you can leave me and Rory in peace.”

                I scramble up off the floor and slink out of the room. I consider returning to the living room, but I don’t particularly want to talk to Jenna right now.

                So I retreat to my own room, lie down on my bed and stare up at the stars. Best way to think, looking up at those stars.

                Regardless of what Arthur said, I’m still not feeling particularly confident about the chances of Catherine still wanting me. Especially after I was an asshole on the phone. For all I know, maybe she had every intention of pursuing an actual relationship, but then she got that drunken call from me and thought, “Oh, never mind, I don’t want a part of that.”

                On Sunday morning, when I realized the full extent of what I’d done, I felt horrible. I told myself that it was probably the only thing to do, but I knew I wasn’t tactful—though who’s tactful when they’re drunk off their ass on whiskey?—and if I hadn’t been so determined to remain firm on my resolve (and if I hadn’t been so embarrassed, so, _so_ embarrassed), I would have called Catherine to talk in a more reasonable fashion. But I didn’t trust myself; if I spoke with her again, I’d be far too likely to go back on my decision to try to get over it.

                Maybe, if Arthur’s right, I don’t _have_ to get over it.

                But I find that so hard to believe. He might be reading too much into it. Arthur really is such a romantic—he always seems to maintain hope long after it’s clear that there’s no chance. I think it’s a product of too many cheesy romances watched on Netflix on Friday nights in.

                I think Matt had the proper idea, not telling me about this. As if I wasn’t conflicted enough already.

                I become increasingly aware of my phone, sitting in my pocket and screaming at me to maybe just take a chance.

                I stare up at the stars and, as though it were yesterday, I feel the ache that it put in my chest when I woke up that Wednesday before Thanksgiving to discover that she was trying to run away from me.

                Even after everything that’s happened, I know that she could call me up right this second and I’d come running. She doesn’t have Twig complicating things anymore; now we could have a real go at it.

                But she’s not calling. She hasn’t called. And although Arthur might be right, all I can do is imagine phoning her up and the call going completely and totally wrong. And I can’t handle that again, can’t handle talking to Catherine and hanging up with the realization that things can’t be the same and God knows she’ll probably say that she just never wants to speak with me again, that that would be easier, and I’ll spend the whole weekend crying again while I readjust to the idea that unfortunately, Catherine’s done with me.

                I can’t call her, not if there’s a chance of that.

                My phone is still shouting at me, though, and I wrench it out of my pocket and throw it across the room.

                “You keep doing that and eventually you’ll cause some actual damage!”

                “Fuck off, Arthur.”

                “What? Do _you_ want to be that guy in those phone commercials, stuck to a two-year contract with an as-good-as-deceased phone?”

                “Those commercials are such bull—why am I even having this argument with you? You know I hate shouting between rooms.”

                “We should’ve just gotten a one-bedroom and shared.”

                “Both of you shut it, I’m about to order dinner!”

                At the promise of food, I jump up and rush to join Jenna back in the living room so that I get some say in what we’re eating tonight. As I pass Arthur’s room, his phone starts ringing, and I glance in just long enough to see his jaw drop at the sight of the caller ID. I pause in his doorway. “Is something wrong?”

                He immediately jumps up and rushes over to me, ringing phone still in hand. “Oh! No, nothing at all. You go help Jenna decide on food, I’ll just be… out in a minute.” And then he slams the door in my face.

                I sprint back into the living room, jump up onto the couch again.

                “Was it really necessary to come in _here_ to eavesdrop? You were already right by his door.”

                I look down at Jenna and roll my eyes; how could she miss something so obvious? “He would have heard me not walk away.”

                “Ah yes, of course. Silly me.”

                She starts humming to herself, and I kick her gently in the side. “Shush!”

                “… leaving until Monday … yeah, I suppose that … … I’ll be there.”

                When he emerges and comes to join us, I cross my arms and look at him sternly. “That was a very boring conversation.”

                He shrugs. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I found it surprisingly enthralling. So tell me, Jenna, what are we getting tonight? And if you tell me Chinese again, I will clobber you.”

                “David, d’you think I should test that?”

                I smile and shake my head. “No, maybe if you’re nice, he’ll tell me what that secretive phone call was about.”

                “I thought you said it sounded boring.”

                “Can’t I still want to know?”

                Arthur chuckles, and suddenly I feel like I’m missing something. “I’m afraid this time, I’m not telling, no matter what lengths you might go to in order to get it out of me.”

                “Never mind, Jenna, let’s get Chinese food, then.”

                Rather than yelling at me, Arthur picks a fight with Jenna, and I look on, smiling contentedly. I’m sitting in between my sister and my best friend and there’s not much in the world that could be better.

                Well, except if Catherine were here. That, of course, would be best.


	25. Chapter 24: Catherine

                This will most likely prove to be a bad idea.

                If only it weren’t quite such an easy one to execute, that might deter me. I imagine having to call Matt or Karen to get the number from them. Considering that they just left approximately four hours ago to drive to Matt’s parents’ house, it would be sending quite a message to phone them up for something that seems so minimal. Then, of course, they’d want to know what I _needed_ it for, and I’d have to explain to them and I’m just not interested in that. It’d simply be another point for me to talk myself out of this.

                So it’s quite lucky that we even thought to exchange numbers. I realize suddenly that it was David’s suggestion, which I suppose is quite fitting.

                I take a deep breath and finally press the call button.

                The phone rings for so long that I almost think I’m being ignored. But finally, “Hi…” he says, dragging out the vowel and trailing off with a questioning lilt. I don’t blame him.

                “Hi. No, I didn’t call the wrong number, it’s you I want to talk to. Is David around?”

                “I’m in my room, but he’s probably eavesdropping; nasty habit he’s picked up over the past week.”

                I cringe; I don’t think Arthur’s trying to sound bitter, but it’s still seeping through. “Okay, then I’ll keep this short. How much longer are you in town?”

                “Er, I’m not leaving until Tuesday.”

                “Do you think you could come to the Daily Grind tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon? I’m working, but Freema shouldn’t mind if I take a couple of minutes off.”

                He hesitates. “Yeah, I suppose that could work. Mind if I, y’know, ask why?”

                “Just a conversation I don’t want to have over the phone.”

                “Okay.”

                I think he’s about to hang up, but I have to ask. “Arthur!” A soft grunt on the other side of the phone is my only indication that he’s still listening. “Um, how’s David?”

                “I’ll be there,” is all he says before he hangs up.

                That bad, then.

                Either that, or he could be doing perfectly fine while I’ve been hanging around for the past week wondering how I could have gone so long thinking that I was in love with Twig when I wasn’t, and trying to be just friends with David when I felt a constant tug toward him that became positively unrelenting by the end.

                It’s that same tug that’s pulling me now.

                Although he agreed to come, I half-expect Arthur to be a no-show. And as the hours wither away the following afternoon, I begin to genuinely worry that this might be the case. Freema watches me squirm, but she doesn’t ask what has me so bothered.

                Finally, though, he strolls in through the door.

                “Isn’t that David’s hat?” I ask, as he reaches the counter.

                He pulls it off of his head and examines it carefully. “Oh yeah, it is. Whatever, he won’t notice; he and Jenna are staying in tonight.”

                “Jenna’s still here?” As far as I knew, she was supposed to leave on Wednesday.

                “Yeah, she, um… postponed her flight.” Arthur looks away from me quickly, glancing around and eyes finally settling on the menu for something to look at. He quickly says, “I haven’t been here in ages. Matt always complained that I was too distracting.”

                “ _Were_ you distracting?”

                Arthur grins. “I used to show up an hour earlier than he told me to, sit at a table and make faces at him.”

                I chuckle. That’d be a yes, then. “What would you like to drink, Arthur?”

                “Uh, tea, please. Make it…” He squints up at his options, as though he’s making the most difficult decision of his life. “Earl grey. No sugar, just a touch of milk.”

                “Cool, I’ll bring it over to you.” When he tries to pull out his wallet, I shake my head and shoo him away. “I’m not taking your money. Now go sit, I’ll join you in just a moment.”

                Freema is staring at me the whole time I’m preparing Arthur’s tea, and at last I tire of it. “Go ahead, say whatever it is you wanna say.”

                She crosses her arms and leans against the counter. “Did you decide you were going after the wrong roommate?”

                Not quite what I was expecting, but alright. “No, I just need his help.”

                “Ah, alright.” She glances over at Arthur and lowers her voice. “I was about to say, you’re _really_ not his usual type.”

                “I kind of got that impression, yeah.” I look his way too, and watch for a few moments while he fiddles with his phone. “Give me like ten minutes, okay?”

                Freema shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

                Arthur jumps a foot into the air when I set the mug on the table and sit down across from him. He looks at me, a deer in the headlights, and quickly tucks his phone away. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. David, um, when he saw that I was getting ready to go out, he wanted to come with me. He’s like a puppy, always loves going on drives. So I had to convince him that he couldn’t come.”

                I smile fondly at the thought. “How’d you finally get away?”

                “Told him I was secretly meeting with you to discuss him. That shut him up.” At the sight of my expression of total bewilderment, Arthur smiles. “If the truth is unbelievable, there’s no harm in sharing.”

                Although this is not the first time I’ve heard the concept expressed, I’m vaguely surprised to hear it coming from him. Also not for the first time, I muse that I would know a very different Arthur, if I didn’t know him through David.

                He picks up his tea and sips at it, the tea bag still in the mug. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

                Since he agreed to see me, I have considered several possible ways to breach the subject to Arthur. I finally decided that the straightforward method was probably best. “Do you think David would be willing to start over with me?”

                Arthur’s got quite the poker face. We might as well be talking about the weather when he asks, “In what context?”

                In _any_ context. I don’t even care, so long as I don’t need to let him go. Or at least, I care—of course I care—but I’ll take what I can get. Whatever he’ll give me. I shrug, wringing my hands in my lap anxiously. “However he’d have me.” Arthur cocks an eyebrow at me and I rush to add, “I’m sure the information found its way to you that I’ve broken up with Twig, so I can assure you that it’s not my intention to…”

                “String him along?” he suggests.

                I blush. I don’t think of it that way, because the phrase, to me, connotes some sort of vindictive intent. And my actions were the furthest thing from vindictive. But essentially, I suppose, it’s still what I did. “Right,” I say, carefully. “That’s not what I want. I just… Having David around makes me happy, happier than I’ve been in a long time. And I know he said that he doesn’t want me anymore—”

                Suddenly, Arthur begins to laugh. A solid, full laugh that last for over half a minute, so long that several people turn to stare, so long that actual tears begin to run down his face. I feel increasingly mortified—not because of the stares, but because I’m trying to bare my heart to him and he’s sitting here laughing at me.

                At last, he calms down enough so that he can speak. He wipes the tears from his eyes, and says, breathlessly, “I’m sorry, it’s just… the two of you…” He points at me with two fingers, as though David is actually sitting right beside me. “You make quite a pair.”

                “I don’t… I don’t understand.” Even to my own ears, it comes out as a whimper.

                His expression turns sympathetic. “You’re both so convinced that you don’t deserve each other. That the other one ‘doesn’t want you’ anymore.”

                I _don’t_ deserve him, not in the slightest. Not after all the stress I put him through. But what does Arthur mean? Surely David doesn’t think the same about me. He’s done nothing to feel bad about. “I still don’t understand,” I say, dumbly.

                “No, don’t make me start translating. I’m already way too close for comfort in this mess.”

                Oh yes. How true. I grimace. “I’m sorry.”

                “You don’t have anything to apologize to me about,” he says, with a small laugh. He’s spinning his mug around in circles on the table, over and over.

                “Don’t I, though?”

                Arthur looks up from his mug and stares at me again with that poker face. He stares and stares and for a second I think he might crack, let me see what he’s thinking. But no such luck. “Yes, I think that David would be willing to start over.”

                I feel a rush of joy. Although Karen also told me so, hearing it from Arthur fills me with so much more hope and confidence. “Will you help me, then?”

                “Help you what?”

                “To get him back.”

                He nearly chokes on his tea. “Why don’t you just _call_ him?”

                I blush and have to look away from him, staring down at my lap instead. “Sometimes, you get an idea for how to go about something, and after that, absolutely nothing else will do. Even if it’s not particularly straightforward, you just… gotta do it.”

                “Okay. I can understand that. But why are you asking me? If you can…” He hesitates and perhaps thinks better of continuing. “Why are you asking me?”

                “Because here’s the way I see it.” I lean forward and perch on my elbows, looking at him very intently. While he just sips that tea. It’d be nice if he could actually say what’s on his mind, maybe I’d feel less like I’m in the middle of a fucking job interview. “You were a bystander in what happened the first time. It was, um, kind of a mess.”

                “Kind of,” Arthur mutters.

                I roll my eyes. Point taken. “I figure that you don’t want to see David go through that a second time, so you would only agree to help me if you can’t foresee something happening like that again. If you _can_ , you’d be more reluctant, and… I’d probably think twice before calling because I’m not sure I could stand it.”

                Arthur stares down now, too, and he’s leaning as far back as possible away from me. He lowers his voice, murmurs, “What about the third possibility?”

                “If you don’t want to help me, I’m not going to ask why. I have faith in your integrity.”

                “You shouldn’t.”

                Even though he’s not looking at me, I shake my head slightly, in part to convince myself. “No. David trusts you; so I do, too.”

                Arthur runs a hand through his hair and lets out a tortured sigh. “Yeah, Catherine. Of course I’ll help you. It’d be a crime not to; no one makes him as happy as you do.”

                I can’t mask the smile that spreads across my face. “Thank you.”

                “Well, it’s only because I like you so much.”

                Considering how selfish it was of me to make the request, it’s quite good of him to say that.

                When I describe my clever scheme to him—if it can even be called a scheme, since I don’t know if there’s really enough to it to be worthy of the word ‘scheme’—he rolls his eyes. “What a very romantic idea.”

                He makes it so disgustingly hard to figure out whether he’s serious. I frown. “What’s wrong with it?”

                “There’s nothing wrong with it. David’s such a dork, he’ll think it’s the perfect gesture. Like you said, it’s not really the most practical route. But it’s… it’s good. Yeah. I can definitely set the gears in motion and… such.” He takes a large gulp of tea, and promptly makes a face. “Fuck, steeped too long. Usually I finish it before that becomes a problem.”

                Our goodbyes are short and to the point, with him only thinking to add, “Don’t call me, I’ll call you. If my phone’s not by me, David might look at the caller ID.”

                “Right, yeah, of course.” He smiles awkwardly and turns to leave, but I feel a sudden compulsion to call after him. “Arthur!”

                He stops in his tracks, and only partially turns back to look at me. He looks distracted, like he’s already moved on to thinking about something more important. “Hmm?”

                I smile again carefully. “Thank you. Really. I know you wouldn’t do this for just anyone.”

                “You’re not just anyone.” He gives me a little salute, and then he is gone.

                As I return to my position behind the counter and pull my apron back on, Freema is staring at me. “What did you just do?”

                “I asked Arthur for help.”

                She nods, eyes wide. “Yes. But why?”

                For several reasons, a majority of which I don’t really want to own up to. So I say the only thing I’m willing to admit: “I realized that I didn’t want to be alone at Christmas.”

                “I don’t follow.”

                Well of course not. But I’m not about to explain, so I wave her off. “It’s not important.”

                Once I’ve gotten home that night, I call Karen. Now that my plan has been set into motion, I see no harm in telling her what I’m doing.

                “Thank God you’ve come to your senses!”

                “Come to my senses about what?”

                “About your stupid idea of a mourning period for Twig.”

                I groan. “There’s a lot of credence to the idea of not rushing from one relationship straight into another. You’d do well to learn from it.”

                She laughs loudly. “We’re talking about your love life here, not mine. So, what exactly was it that made you realize just how stupid it was to not immediately try to make up with David, just for the sake of your _residual feelings_?”

                “Maybe I’ll explain if you stop criticizing my completely valid decision,” I snap.

                For a few moments, only silence. “Jesus, Catherine, I was only teasing…”

                “I know. It just gets irritating after a while, especially when I’m in the middle of telling you something so important.”

                “Okay,” Karen mumbles weakly. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”

                When I ended the call with Twig, I felt empty inside. And I expected to feel a hole there, where he used to be. I expected myself to need time to mourn for that relationship.

                But it’s David’s absence I’ve been feeling, not Twig’s.

                “I realized that maybe there wasn’t as much left as I might have thought,” I say carefully. “I told you… I mean, I didn’t think it was a good idea at first because I thought just having recently broken up with Twig would bog down a relationship with David—if he’ll even have me.”

                “Stop talking like that,” she exclaims.

                “Stop interrupting,” I retort, and on the other end, Karen lets loose a dramatic sigh. “But… everyone misses exes every once in a while. Misses them not because of residual… stuff, but because of the good times they had when they were together. And I shouldn’t confuse those two, or let it hinder me getting into a relationship with someone who I have very real feelings for.”

                I can practically hear her smiling. “Well said, sis. I look forward to hearing about your reunion.”

                “Even if it’s bad news?”

                “It won’t be.”


	26. Chapter 25: David

                “Oh, I just love thrift shops! This was a brilliant suggestion, Arthur.”

                Jenna’s positively bouncing with joy as the three of us enter Finders Keepers, and I glance at Arthur so that I can raise my eyebrows at him, but he’s staring after Jenna and chuckling as she becomes intrigued by a rack of scarves a few feet from the door.

                “But why’d you have to bring me along?” I haven’t been in here since the day that I met Catherine, and _reminiscing_ really isn’t helping my mood.

                She looks back at me and smiles. “You’ve only left the apartment to go to work for the past week. Then you’ve just come straight back. It was time to get you out.”

                Arthur does look at me now, but only to say, “She’s right you know.”

                Great, now they’re ganging up on me.

                “We didn’t have to come _here_ , though…” I mutter.

                They both simultaneously start to nod fervently. “We did actually, yeah,” he informs me.

                As always, Arthur has to look at the sweaters. Those fucking sweaters. As if he doesn’t have enough sweaters in his closet at home. When he emerges from his room for the day wearing something that _isn’t_ a sweater, I’m stunned. So he most certainly doesn’t need more God damn sweaters.

                On that matter, though, I suppose we have a difference of opinions, because he lingers in the aisle for eons, building up a pile in his arms. Jenna finally picks up on my aggravation—or perhaps she noticed all along, and she only now decides to do something about it—and tugs on my arm, saying, “C’mon David, let’s go browse elsewhere.”

                “Have fun!” Arthur calls after us.

                We stroll past aisles, and I think vaguely that I could use some more plaid. One can always use more plaid. And going down that aisle might suck, because last time I was here Catherine was here but now she won’t be here and—

                I freeze in my tracks as we reach the aisle in question. I grab my sister’s arm and hold it tightly. “Jenna, I’ve started to hallucinate.” Same coat, same hat, same ginger hair, perusing the rack, and fucking hell now I’m _seeing_ her, too.

                But Jenna doesn’t grasp the severity of the matter; in fact, she starts to giggle. “You’re not hallucinating, David.”

                “I’m not?” I try to process this information. It’s not processing.

                Phantom Catherine raises her head and looks to us. “No, you’re not.” She sounds so apprehensive.

                I don’t understand. Jenna pulls her arm out of my grip—it takes some work because of how tightly I’m clinging to her—and gives me a slight nudge forward. “No, you’re not.” She turns and looks the phantom Catherine directly in the eyes and says, “I think I’ll, um, check in on Arthur and those sweaters of his.”

                The fact that Jenna can also see this phantom Catherine does certainly diminish the chances of her not being real. But I still don’t understand.

                From the corner of my eye, I see my sister trying to gauge my expression before she leaves, but I can’t tear my gaze away from Catherine. Catherine who certainly can’t be here because it just doesn’t… make sense.

                I take a few hesitant steps forward. “Are you sure you’re real?”

                She holds a hand up near her face to examine more closely. “Pretty sure, yeah. Although, you know, that does raise the question of whether _any_ of us are real… For all we know, we could be disembodied brains in jars. Or we could be in the Matrix. Or…”

                Though Catherine’s still talking, I catch none of what she says as I sprint down the aisle and pull her into a hug. She starts laughing in my ear. When I pull away slightly to look at her, she’s smiling, but she’s also got tears in her eyes. I reach up to wipe them away, and whisper, “Why’re you crying?”

                “Why’re you hugging me?”

                I grin. “To say hello. Also because you made a reference to the Matrix and also because I can only assume that I’m here because you orchestrated it and that makes me… really, really happy. Why are you crying?”

                “Because I’m just so pleased that you’re not angry anymore.”

                “You’re pleased that _I’m_ not angry?” I exclaim, flummoxed. “I wanted to call you… a billion times, but I was scared that you’d be upset with _me_. All those horrible things I said… you didn’t deserve it.”

                She blushes deeply. “Oh, but I did, David. What I did to you… it was so unfair. You said you didn’t want to deal with it anymore and I couldn’t blame you in the slightest.”

                “People say a lot of things they don’t mean when they’re drunk. And I was very, _very_ drunk.”

                “I kind of got that impression, yeah.”

                We look at each other and we grin and she starts laughing again, at which point she pulls me back into a hug and buries her face in my chest.

                My thoughts are racing at a thousand miles an hour, and I feel so deeply, profoundly giddy, but a question pokes its way to the surface and once it occurs to me, I can’t nudge it away. “Why didn’t you just call or something?”

                Catherine pulls away and she looks up at me with wide eyes as she bites her lip. Have I ever mentioned how much I love it when she bites her lip? “Oh, I had a whole speech prepared, I was all ready to work so hard to convince you to give me a second chance. I forgot everything the minute I saw you. But that I wanted to start anew, that was the gist of it. And I thought this was the only logical place to do so.”

                I grin. “I love that. Yes. Starting anew. That would be good.”

                “You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that.”

                “And I’m sure you have no idea how happy it makes me to be saying it.”

                She giggles and shakes her head. “Oh no. I’m putting a stop to this before it gets much too ridiculous. We’re both very happy. Now, that we’ve established that, it’s time to start over.”

                “Oh, right, yeah.” I jump back a few feet so that there’s a legitimate, reasonable amount of space between us. I clear my throat and stick out my right hand. “Hey Catherine, I’m David.”

                “I haven’t introduced myself yet; how do you know my name?”

                “Fuck, sorry.” I pull my arm back and clear my throat again, then I once again reach out to her. “I’m David.”

                “Catherine.” We shake hands, and she follows my lead as I (attempt to) direct my attention to the shirts.

                I glance at her sideways as I say, “Nice to meet you, Catherine. Do you, uh, come here often?”

                She’s only barely keeping a straight face, but I can’t blame her; I’m already grinning unabashedly. “You know, you wouldn’t expect to get that line a lot when you go into thrift shops, but I’ve actually heard that one before.”

                After a brief silence, she adds, “I do come here a lot, though. If you’re interested.”

                There’s an undertone of a question in there. As though she still thinks that I might want to take an opportunity to back out. I sincerely can’t fathom how she could even consider such a possibility, but just to assure her, I say, “I can, without a doubt, say that I am in possession of a great deal of interest.”

                Catherine turns to look at me straight on, and she’s smiling so widely. Her eyes are shining with a hint of fresh tears, and the sight makes me bold. I grab her hand and I add, “I hope you know that not everything I said that night was untrue.”

                Her eyes widen. “Oh?”

                “Yeah. Arthur really is shit at giving the silent treatment.” She giggles and she doesn’t look so apprehensive anymore. I rush to continue. “No, but seriously… I was drunk when I said, ‘I love you,’ and when I woke up the next morning I almost wanted to take it back because you don’t deserve to be informed so offhandedly. But just because I said it offhandedly, just because I threw it into such a rude mess of other statements, don’t think that I don’t mean it.”

                “Goodness, David, do you normally make such strong declarations only two minutes after meeting people?”

                “It’s quite a common practice, actually.”

                “Oh, well, in that case…” She clears her throat. “Don’t you dare for one moment think that I don’t mean what I’m about to say, okay?”

                God, that’s ominous. I rack my brain, trying to come up with what she might possibly be about to tell me, but I come up empty. “Yeah, okay.”

                “I think I fell in love with you ages ago. I’m certainly in love with you now. But I… I was so determined to hold on to what I thought I wanted, that I didn’t treat you right and I _did_ string you along. Not on purpose, but that’s kind of what happened. And I know you might think it’s silly, but I really _don’t_ deserve a second chance with you, because I seriously fucked up the first time.”

                “But… that _is_ silly,” I stammer.

                Catherine gives my hand a squeeze. “And the fact that you think so just makes me love you more.”

                I have Catherine standing here, declaring that she loves me—I’ve been waiting on this for I don’t even know how long—and I find myself at a complete loss for how to react. I’m positively speechless. My heart is racing, and I feel like I could jump for joy, or run around the block, or kiss her.

                Now that’s an idea.

                Very possibly, it’s the most modest, chaste kiss that we’ve ever shared, but somehow it takes my breath away more than any of the rest. I pull away and I’m still grinning; at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if the expression’s permanently etched onto my face, and I wouldn’t care if it is, because this right here is reason enough to keep smiling forever.

                “And you kiss women three minutes after meeting them.”

                I laugh and shake my head. “No, that’s just you.”

                “That’s good to hear.”

                Once again, I try to look at the shirts. One catches my eye in particular, and I tug it off the rack to examine more closely. I hold it up to Catherine questioningly, but she scrunches up her face and shakes her head. “That’s almost as bad as the one you had last time.”

                “Yeah, it kind of is… I don’t think even Arthur would wear it.” I replace it on the rack quickly. “Speaking of whom, I’d like to go inform him that I just ran into this really awesome girl. But just to be on the safe side, will you come with me this time?”

                She giggles. “Yeah, alright.”

                I take her hand and pull her back down the aisle and toward the sweaters. Arthur, however, has finished with the sweaters and moved on to the jeans. Jenna is standing beside him, holding some of his haul so that he’s got hands free to browse. At the sound of our approaching footsteps, they both look up. Jenna immediately starts beaming. “Have you two settled things, then?”

                “We have, yeah.” Catherine gives my hand a small squeeze.

                “Thank God,” Arthur exclaims. “I was getting worried that _I_ was going to have to kiss David under the mistletoe. So it’s good to see that you’ve managed to figure it all out.”

                Jenna rolls her eyes and instructs Catherine to, “Ignore him. He’s just bitter because he doesn’t have anyone to be kissing under mistletoe.” And then her face brightens considerably. “And speaking of such holiday traditions, I’ve got a question for you, which I have not discussed with David, but to which I’m certain he will have no objections.”

                Catherine looks at me with a questioning gaze, but I just shrug. “I have no idea. I never know what’s going on in that brain of hers.”

                My sister giggles. “It’s true. I love it. _But_ that’s not important. I just wanted to offer… well, since I know that Matt brought your sister down to his parents’ and all, I thought maybe it would be fun if you spent Christmas with us.” She bounces back and forth on her feet and looks between us eagerly.

                Oh, I really do love Jenna. “That’s a marvelous idea! Oh, do spend Christmas with us, please do,” I plead.

                “You’re such a child,” she says with a chuckle. “Yeah, of course I will. I’d quite like that.”

                “Does anyone else think it’s a bit ridiculous that we’re still standing in this thrift shop?” Arthur asks.

                I point at Arthur. “He’s right. Why are we still here when we should be going out and celebrating?”

                “That’s not… really what I meant, but… okay.”

                As we’re heading back to the car, Jenna links her arm with mine and slows us down, so that Arthur and Catherine are walking a few yards ahead of us. “So David, I think we’ve all learned something from this whole experience.”

                “Right, I’ve learned that I should never ever take your advice when you tell me to stop speaking with the woman I’m in love with.”

                She laughs and shakes her head. “That’s not it, no.”

                “Well y’know, Jenna, I never like when something happens and we walk away with a nice, clean-cut lesson to have learned. Life’s not like that.”

                “What, so do you not want to hear my lesson?”

                I smile and quicken my pace, pulling her along with me to catch up with Catherine and Arthur. “I’m sure it’s a very good lesson. It just… well, I think it’s silly to make things out to be so final. Especially in this case.” We reach the two of them, and I grab for Catherine’s hand again. She looks back at me and grins. I swear to God it feels like the two of us have reason enough to keep grinning forever.

                “The two of you are too sickeningly sweet for me. Arthur, I think we should leave them behind and just go celebrate on our own.”

                “You know, that’s a fairly valid suggestion. After all, I do have something to celebrate, don’t I?” He turns back and stares me with raised eyebrows, and I look at him questioningly. “David will no longer be moping around in his room listening to the same two One Direction songs on repeat. That’s most definitely cause for celebration.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've finally finished this behemoth of a fanfic. I hope you've all enjoyed reading it as much as I (usually) enjoyed writing it. I also hope the final chapter wasn't a disappointment; I concocted the idea for this scene somewhere around chapter 7, and to my mind, it's the only way it could have ended.


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